Not long before my wife died, she asked one thing of me: to remember her after she’d gone. My first thought was: “Well, I’m hardly likely to forget you, am I?” Then she said she wanted me to remember her the way she was before she “blossomed”. My first thought here was that she had already blossomed when I first met her. And I said so. But she was convinced she blossomed later. And she should know. She then said that she wanted me to write poems/songs about her, so “remember” was already then given the nuance of “commemorate”. She added that she wanted me to describe her from before I met her as well. No problem!
Today is our 36th wedding anniversary, the third one since Ann’s death. On the first one I was one of nine of her family members that scattered her ashes at sea from her cousin, Carsten’s, boat just off the island of Hirsholm, which houses the lighthouse she could see from her childhood home.
Family became all-important to Ann in 2012 after the death of her eldest brother, Anders. At her wake I found the speech she gave for him at his funeral in my jacket pocket. She’d learnt it by heart. I read it aloud for the gathering, and we could all see that what she’d said about Anders applied equally well to Ann herself. Here’s my translation:
Dear Anders – we are gathered together around you here today.
And it is with deep sorrow. Mum has to say goodbye to her son. Peter, Pia, Christian, and I – to our big brother. Dun and Else – to their brother-in-law. And Mads, Maja, and Anne – to their uncle. Grethe – to her soulmate and partner. Knud, Ingrid, and Viggo – to their nephew. Søren to his friend and fellow student – and many more along with us…
You were so alive – yes, so full of life and enthusiasm. And so strong. Now we are grieving, and our loss is a great and painful one.
We have lost someone who gave us so much. For us – your loved ones – you were the someone who gave us most. You were the one who was there for each and every one of us and played a part in our lives. The one who helped us, supported us, taught us so much – and understood us. You gave of yourself. And that is the most beautiful thing we human beings can give each other.
Anders – you were a good person! A true human being! And a beautiful person!
You were well-balanced and had integrity. That’s how you found your path in life. And it WAS YOUR PATH. And what a beautiful path you showed us – and so sublime! Even though it ended far too abruptly.
But you were you, Anders! In a class of your own, a unique individual. And the life that was yours was the life that YOU created. Your farm, your forest, and your barn, with your glassmaking and pottery and your creative courses – you created it all.
You did well in life, Anders! So well that you were admired and respected by many others. But for you it was never about the money, the prestige, or the success. No, because you were modest. You never made a big noise – never used big words. Your actions said so much more. They said it all.
For you it was about playing, curiosity, the desire to create, the challenge… that was your motivation – AND THE JOY OF CREATING AND WATCHING LIFE UNFOLD AND BE FULFILLED.
Anders, you always insisted that you were a craftsman. YES! And in all that you created, all that you accomplished IN YOUR WAY, HERE IN LIFE, indeed in the whole way you lived your life, you were also an artist – and a great life artist at that.
And what a gift that the most important thing for you in this life was us – your family, your partner, and your friends! I know I speak for all of us when, with love and gratitude, I say:
Thank you, Anders! Thanks for everything! For everything you were! And for everything you gave! And thank you for letting us join you on your beautiful, sublime path through life.
On our paths – throughout the rest of our lives – we will carry you in our hearts!
THAT’S WHERE YOU BELONG FOREVER!
Ann wrote her final book, a children’s book, Den smilende Kamel kommer til søen (The Smiling Camel Comes to the Pond) while she was terminally ill with cancer, publishing it herself just 3½ months before she died. It meant a lot to her that it was her cousin, Christine, that illustrated it, and that it was designed and printed by her second cousin, Erik. All the animals are representations of real people. Ann’s the duck, and I’m the owl.
It’s fitting that it’s Ann’s cousin, Claus, a fellow sæbynit (someone who lives in Saeby), playing the trombone in this recording of “Remembering Ann”, the third of ten pieces in this second edition of my pamphlet, Remembering Ann, with six new pieces:
Claus and I intend to record the two pieces not yet showcased here soon (“Ann Gone” and “Simply Standing There”). I would love to perform the ten songs in concert as well as – Dream on, babe! – do a proper album.
I have a few unsung pieces for Ann too:
gists 