Magritt Järvinen

I woke up to the sound of seagulls outside my window this morning. Even in Helsinki, so far from the countryside I loved, the sound made me feel a little closer to the world I used to know. I’ve been here at this retirement home for a few months now. My life in the little red house in the country feels like it was another lifetime, but I still remember the scent of pine trees and the cool touch of morning dew on my walks.

It wasn’t an easy decision to move here, but after that fall in the bathroom—those broken ribs were a wake-up call. The doctors and my best friends, as much as they could with their own aches and pains, all agreed I couldn’t live alone anymore. My husband’s been gone for 20 years now—heart attack, sudden and unforgiving. Our son followed him five years later, taken by the slow, cruel hand of alcoholism. Those years after his death were the hardest. I was buried in mourning, but I walked through it, quite literally, with those long walks in the countryside.

Here, there’s not much silence. The staff bustle around, busy with their tasks. One of them, a young man from Turkey, takes time to read me the newspaper when he can. He’s kind, and his accent reminds me that the world is bigger than this home. I try to keep busy, though my hands are not as steady as they used to be. I’ve met a few people here, but forming friendships at 82 is like trying to grow flowers in winter.

I don’t know how many tomorrows I have left, but for now, I’m content with this one. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a friend here to share the next one with.