A letter to you

I've been holding on to this one for a while. I've been wanting to give a tribute to my friend. My mum's auntie. My oldest friend. 96 years, and still the wisest person I know. From everyday chats about work, relationships and “how to keep my plants alive” (always me asking), discussions about the greatest concerns the world is facing, to providing me with clothes she is not using anymore, that she thinks I will like, to sending home grown tomatoes from her own garden with me home. Packed in one of those plastic bags bisquites comes in. Emptied and reused.

I am writing this to my biggest inspirator and supporting friend. Staying home is the way I'm gonna be there for her right now. Even though I'd rather share my coffee with her over the kitchen table.

(First written in Norwegian, as it was natural for me. I'm sharing the English translation with you as well, followed by the original)

—

Dear you,

I hope you're not alone tonight. I hope you listen to the radio, feeling like you have company. I hope those stopping by your house make you feel good. That they sit down to have a coffee with you. Dear you, my good friend. 96 years old, not my grandma, but still one of my very best. Definitley the wisest I know. Without doubt the nicest person I know.

A few months back I wrote a letter to you. Promised I would stop by before I'm moving north in May. Told you I was looking forward to give you a hug. Asked you if you remember that time we were listening to the news on the radio, and they were talking about all the plastic in the oceans - you don't like that. Neither do I. So I wrote to you to tell you I am lucky enough to get the opportunity to study the plastic in the ocean, and I am sure your response was thinking: “really? Oh, that's magnificent!”. Because you're great at supporting, and the world's best slow coffee-drinking company. I hope you got to read that letter, so you know I'm thinking about you.

I promised to stop by. I promised to give you a hug. I wish I could keep my promise, be there with you, talk about the small and big things, give you multiple hugs on both cheeks, the way you always do. Laugh with you, and talk about how you've been. Because I know this is a lonely period. Maybe especially for you.

I wish I could stop by. That I could give you a thousand hugs. But for now, I am happy to stay at home. For you. But also for everyone else. And when all this is over, hopefully in not too long, we'll meet for a nice cup of coffee, and we can talk about all those things.

Until then,

Tavare,

Vilde

//

Kjære deg,

Jeg håper du ikke er alene i kveld. Jeg håper du hører på radioen, og føler at du har selskap. Jeg håper de som kommer på besøk får deg til å føle deg vel. At de noen ganger har tid til å ta en kaffe med deg.

Kjære deg, min gode venn. 96 år, og ikke min bestemor, men likevel en av mine aller beste. Helt klart den klokeste jeg kjenner. Uten tvil den koseligste jeg kjenner.

Noen måneder er gått siden jeg skrev et brev til deg. Lovte at jeg kommer på besøk før jeg flytter i mai. Sa jeg gledet meg til å gi deg en klem. Spurte deg om du husker den gangen vi hørte på radioen, og snakket om alt søppelet i havet - du liker ikke det. Ikke jeg heller. Så jeg skrev til deg at jeg skal få være med å forske på plastikken i havet, og jeg er sikker på at du ville svart med “nei, sier du det! Å, så storarta!” For du er en eneste stor støttespiller, og verdens beste kaffe-selskap. Jeg håper du fikk lest brevet, så du vet jeg tenker på deg.

Jeg lovte deg å komme innom en tur. Jeg lovte deg å gi deg en klem. Jeg ønsker så gjerne å være der med deg, snakke om de store og små ting, gi deg flere klemmer på hvert kinn, le med deg, og høre om hvordan du har det. For jeg vet det er ei ensom tid. Kanskje spesielt for deg.

Jeg skulle ønske jeg kunne komme innom. At jeg kunne gi deg tusen klemmer. Men for nå, er jeg glad for å være hjemme. For deg. Men også for alle andre. Så håper jeg vi møtes igjen og kan ta ei koselig kaffe-stund om ikke lenge, så kan vi snakke om alle disse tingene.

Inntil da,

Tavare,

Vilde