Not an anniversary
She passed away 37 years ago, not quite today, and would have turned 79 this year. She loved Romy Schneider, whom people said she resembled, and Cornelia Froboess, with whom she shared the birthday. She smoked and read, every evening, or every evening that I now remember. She did all the accounting, much of the housework, and it also felt like she did most of the loving and caring, including the hard stuff involved in all of it, which was what eventually wore her down. She came from the Southern part of the country, yet the people up here in the cold and gloomy Northern countryside still liked her (they usually don’t even like each other, much less so people from as far away as the next village). She fought, fearless, talked, breathless. She befriended the most unlikely of people and brought them together. She tried to turn a dispersed group of weirdos into some kind of family, most of whom weren’t even related to her by blood (and those who were often gave her the worst of times). She laughed a lot, before she began to drift away.
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