The funerals have begun for the youngsters murdered on Utøya and those who died in the bomb explosion in Oslo. The media is posting pictures of these solemn ceremonies, and many Labor Party politicians, past and present, are attending and speaking at them, including Prime Minister Stoltenberg. I can’t look at the photographs without breaking into tears.

I take breaks from the continuing news coverage of the terror attack, only checking NRK and Aftenposten intermittently and occasionally switching over to the music station when I’m in the car. I need a little pause from the sadness and the grief, even though I feel a bit guilty doing so. Because, you know, I’m lucky enough to be able to turn away from it all for a while, since my family wasn’t shattered to pieces by this event. I don’t have to pass a son’s or daughter’s bedroom door as I wander through my house, knowing that the life that used to fill up that space is gone forever.

I’ve been working a lot and also enjoying the spectacular summer weather we’ve had for the past week, cycling to the beach after work to swim in the amazingly temperate fjord off Vesterøya here. This has been, by far, the best summer weather I can remember in the five years I’ve lived in Norway. Sitting on the rocks after a swim, breezing through an English-language crime novel, I can put the terror attack completely out of my mind.

But…. I worked all day long yesterday cleaning a hytte for a client of the cleaning company where I am a summer employee. I met her when she came home at 6.00pm. We chatted a bit as I gathered my supplies, chatter that consisted mostly of me gushing over her beautiful little house. She thanked me, telling me that the hytte has been in her family for generations and that her son had done the most recent remodeling of the kitchen and bathroom. She became very serious and said it was a stretch for her to afford the place but she never wanted to give it up, since her son who had done all of that work had then died in a car accident. Shocked, I used the Norwegian words I can remember to try to express my condolences. I asked her when that had happened and she said, “Not long ago. Three years.” Her eyes filled with tears as she said that.

Three years. Still so much pain after three years. I immediately thought of the Utøya families and shuddered at what is ahead of them.

It was overcast and pouring with rain as I carried my buckets and dirty mops to my car. The weather seemed appropriate. Still so much sadness here.