A Tear for Someone Undeserving text:

The tram ride to the hospital was silent. My father had never been through anything like this before. I had only done it once.

As we entered the hospital, we were greeted by a man in a suit. It was the same man who had helped us plan the funeral. He spoke in a low and calm voice, but his body language suggested that he was just as uncomfortable with the situation. He asked if we were ready and sure about the decision we had made. I nodded but said nothing.

"I must inform you that those who prepared Gunnbjørg have done their very best. Unfortunately, she is still quite red and blue in some areas of her face," he said. My father and I exchanged somewhat bewildered glances but still said yes. After all, we had come this far, and it couldn't be that bad, right?

We were led down a staircase that ended at a small fountain. The room was warm and humid. To the right, there was a door that led into a chapel. He explained that this was where she was lying. When we entered the room, it felt as if I wasn’t really supposed to be there. The first thing I saw was the coffin lid leaning against the wall. The room smelled like a nursing home, and she lay in a white coffin positioned diagonally in the room. I felt panicked and scared when I caught sight of her. She was dressed in a white gown, and her hands were placed over her chest. Her nails were black. Her bangs had been brushed back, and her face was swollen, blue, and red. She would have hated the way she looked.

I had to sit down. It was as if she was pretending to sleep. I didn’t know whether I should vomit or cry. My father said nothing, just sighed and rubbed his forehead. I couldn’t look at her, and I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I had an analog camera in my bag. The only thing I could think about was whether I should photograph her. Was it even allowed? I asked my father. "I think you should do it for your own sake," he said.

After much hesitation, my father left the room so it was just me and my mother’s body. I sat down on the chair furthest away. I was scared she would open her eyes, move, prove that she was only pretending. I took one photo. The flash on the camera went off, and the moment was immortalized. 

I felt like throwing up. I took a few steps closer and photographed her hands. That way, I didn’t have to look at her face. I tried to find another angle and walked to the other side of the coffin. Her face was significantly more deformed than I had seen earlier. Suddenly, I understood why the coffin was placed that way. I stood over her just long enough to break into tears. I hadn’t expected that, but I wasn’t prepared for her to look so battered. I couldn’t hold back my tears and had to sit down again. The only thought running through my mind was a saying: that a dead body often reflects the life it had lived.

I took six photos in total. When I left the room, visibly affected, I was met by my father and the man we had spoken to earlier. My father looked surprised. He wasn’t used to seeing me cry in front of others. I couldn’t say anything. I was too proud to let two grown men see me like that.

I moved a little further away, but I could still hear their conversation. "I have never seen anyone in this situation look like that. I understand if it’s a lot," said the man in the suit. My father tried to respond but struggled to find the words.

On the way home, we sat in silence again. I couldn’t get her face out of my mind. It was as if the person she had been in life no longer existed.