After my gramma’s death, I feel comfort in the fog surrounding my wooden porch. The haze entwines the trees and sinks into the mountains, looking thicker than usual. As my gramma’s stitched quilt sits heavy on my shoulders, I can recall a story she told me.
“Don’t be scared, krútt,” she told me one foggy day, years earlier. Hazy air blocked the sunlight, and my small hands clutched the windowsill as I attempted to see my playhouse in the backyard.
“Don’t you know what fog is?” she asked me, and I shook my head in return. I tore myself away from the window to sit next to her, and she covered my shoulders in her quilt.
“Whenever someone in Eskifjörður passes on, they become part of the fog. Then, when danger falls upon our town, the völva uses her fog to protect us,” Gramma said, pointing out the window. “We make the fog strong and we protect our village. She is safeguarding us with your ancestors help.”
Now, on the morning of her death, memories of Eskifjörður’s völva come back into my mind. On my porch, I let the fog envelop me, and I can feel the weight of her quilt pressed on my shoulders. It’s heavier than I remember.
“Why are you sitting outside, Mamma? Are you sad about Great Gramma? It’s scary out here.”
I turn around to see my own young daughter in the doorway, hesitant to walk any closer. I get up and wrap the quilt around her. With my hand on her back, I lead her into the fog, letting it circle us.
“Don’t be scared, krútt, and let me tell you a story.”
