I just found this picture in my hard drive. I was trying to remember when it was - Karin still had hair and those beaten-down slippers that slowly slumped to earth as the fabric lost its integrity. It was in our summer house and I could trace this back to the exact time; but I don't want to - what is the point? Here is a moment: when the moment occured isn't relevant; it's not as if I am methodically constructing an archive like meticulously prepared specimens pinned into a glass cabinet with hand-written labels, dates places.
I can see it in her eyes, but I don't know if you can. You might just see a woman, relaxed and thoughtful. I, however, can see the world being sorted out, the interconnectedness between people, the act of sitting in your own life. I can see that because that was in her mind - that took up her mind.
In tidying up her work stuff this morning I found an old CV. Was that who she was? Or was it a constructed other-ego that was made for a purpose. The public, the private, the solitary, the unconscious, all combine to create a distilled overview of the person.
I knew the fierceness of loving one, just one person. The all-consuming richness that gave strength to existence; and of course I knew the feeling of receiving the same back.
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