Árdís - 01.01.1964, Qupperneq 44

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ÁRDIS
strange land. She thought of her babies. The strong one who had
attained adulthood and had gone out into the world at an early
age. The stillborn ones taking up but a tiny space in the family
plot. Then in her forties, when the youngest son was nearly ten,
she had surprised everyone by giving birth to a tiny daughter—a
fragile jewel that she had treasured and loved for eight short years.
It was after midnight when she got up stiffly to lay her
daughter on the bed. She sank down beside the still form but she
did not weep all her tears had been shed secretly during the
months that Helga had fought her losing battle.
Once again summer has come to the pioneer settlement along
the river. Young lambs frolic in green pastures and butterflies flit
about in the sunshine.
But a bereaved mother’s heart is heavy and tears fall like
rain on a small pair of yellow shoes she holds in her hands as
she asks the age-old question, “Why? Oh Lord, Why?”
And in the graveyard a golden carpet of dandelions covers a
small grave, but the age-old question still remains unanswered.
Though winds are wild,
And the gale unleashed,
My trusting heart still sings:
I know that they mean
No harm to me,
He rideth on their wings.
— Selected.