He was buried a saturday in February. A warm summer day in New Zealand. A cold winter day back home in Denmark. He was buried on the top of his family's cemetery in the valley surrounded by the beautiful mountains, the sea still rushing from afar. It was a hot day, which started with a quiet trickling rain, that covered the valley and our already tear stricken faces as a humid veil. But when he was carried in his coffin up to his final resting place, the rain had stopped and the sun burned its way into our skin and left us marked. When we lowered him down, everything was quiet before a strong wind dried the tears away and gave new air to our tired minds and bodies. He was gone. Everything powerful and strong and physical that was him was now gone. It was laid in the ground. We were left vulnerable and abandoned as individuals who each had lost a little of themselves when he left our world with all the stories, all the un-said, all the un-dones and with all our feelings plastered on the outer layer for the world to see, that we all had lost something beautiful.
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