Winding Sheet
WINDING SHEET
It will be necessary to read the story in ”Winding sheet” from two ends at the same time. When I buried my ex-husband in Los Angeles in the summer of 2004, the last thing I saw of him was his body wrapped in green tarpaulin. This was the memory that was evoked when I meet the green wrappings with the ropes and the stones. It was like walking between rows of coffins or grave-clothed corpses.
A little later, I understand that I am in a campsite, and that the corpses are what the summer guests have left overwinter. The trademarks is their way of showing, here I live, this place belongs to me.
In one version, the image of what remains after death returns, what the wrapping and the body hide from the spirit is released in death. But if I interpret these marks, they tell different stories of what we living want to own and call ours in life.
Some of the returnees from the Iraq war are resting along the beach in Santa Monica right next to the amusement park on the pier. The water hits the beach mixed with the rhythmic sounds of the amusement park, and we are in the middle of a community of knee-high memorials. Here they are all just a part of the light in which the crosses merge.
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