Nordjylland, Danmark, Sep 2015 We went to visit Flemming’s father in Northern Jutland for a few days last year. It wasn’t my first visit, but it was the one where I got a sense of the place where Flemming Bo Jensen (who is a Nordjyde) was born and raised, as his father drove us around the region on a grand tour. The day he brought us to Trend Strand (Trend beach) so I could run around in the fog and sea grass, was also the day we went to Aggersund, got the scoop on Harald Bluetooth’s Aggersborg, the largest known round Viking castle in Denmark, and how the Vikings dug a passage for their ships from Limfjord to the North Sea. We stopped by the small fishing town of Thorup in the late afternoon, to watch the fishing boats get towed onto the beach …
30102013. 30122013. I lost my father on the 30th of October last year. He would have turned 75 exactly two months after. The construction of those dates was distressing in those early, not-entirely-compos-mentis days after his death. The asymmetry of 1s. 2s and 3s. Numbers, when neither he, nor I, had ever been people who went by them. It was curious to be troubled by a random occurrence of digits, when I was mostly unfazed dealing with the logistics of him his death: funeral arrangements, helping my mother pack his clothing away, selling off his beloved fishing gear. I expected to be immobilized by Dad’s death. I was close to my father. We had a lot in common as people, not only because we were parent and child. We didn’t see eye to eye half the time, but we were alike in many …
The other day, I dreamt about walking into an old style English pub with a rock climbing wall at the back, a dog on a leash, and my father. It’s been 10 months since my father died. This was the first I had dreamt about him in this entire time, which is highly unusual.
A week before I returned to Singapore from Australia, Mum had to put the pug down.
The thing that haunts me, is how normal my father’s absence feels. Has felt from the beginning.
2013 was year where my desire to go walkabout with possessions in a bundle at the end of a stick – or a couple of bags in my case – came true. I’ve been on it for a year and a week today, but rather than some far flung locale, I’m writing this post from my childhood home. Home is something that seems to punctuate journeys though, so perhaps there is no better place.
My entire understanding of my father’s death at this point, rides on numbers. September 4 – the stage of cancer he was diagnosed with.
But how do you get away from the memories? That’s what she’s left with. The missing words to a prayer she can’t recite. Trying to find all that’s lost. – Mark V. Krajnak, from JerseyStyle Photography’s Friday Noir The day before I turned 33, I delivered a eulogy for my father, as his body awaited the cremating furnace.