In the middle of my daily chores, I notice movement in the living room window. I pause and look at the figure—its head tilted over the left shoulder, its calm, serious eyes gazing back at me. The reflection fragments into four smaller images, reminding me of Russian dolls, also known as Matryoshka dolls—the wooden stacking dolls I played with as a child. I think of Mummi, my father’s mother. Her efficiency, high standards, and determination, which I sometimes recognize in my own brisk movements—and at times, in my uncompromising nature, both toward myself and others.Grandma was the charismatic marketing director of the Muurame furniture factory. She once told me how important it was to memorize all the names of the American clients and their spouses, and how she had to think on her feet more often than she’d have liked (in her own words, her memory was good but short).
After Grandpa passed away, Mummi started playing the piano every day—whether on the upright piano at our summer place in Mehtovaara, on her grand piano in Lahti, or even on an electric piano with headphones when the neighbor had once again complained about too much Rachmaninoff. The piano was her escape—loosening her grip on all her worries for a moment. She played out emotions that wouldn’t fit within the frames of everyday life—its words or actions. Later, Mummi was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. 'Just tip me over there', she once said from her wheelchair, gesturing towards the water on a sunny walk by Lake Vesijärvi with my father.
I called my mother’s mother ‘Musi.’ She was endlessly curious, gifted with languages, and talented at writing and painting. In her youth, she studied political science, with many career paths open to her. But in the end, the city-born 'Helsinkian' hung up her Chanel jacket and became a pig farmer in Artjärvi. Musi had a razor-sharp sense of humor. She was sensitive and prone to nerves, though she rarely showed it. With her, I never had to hold back my impulsive side—I could flush toys down the toilet, eat an entire box of gingerbread cookies in one sitting, throw up, and keep going with strawberries. Musi would simply cheer me on, admiring my determination. Later, Musi was diagnosed with dementia. Over time, she lost her ability to move and speak. When I visited Finland, I would go see her. After calling her name a few times, I’d see a familiar look in her eyes, and one corner of her mouth would turn up into a smile.
As the long silence of my grandmothers stretched on for years, something in me, too, seemed to fade—slipping into an unnamed void. And so today, in London, in January 2025, I find myself searching for their voice and my own, gazing into the reflection in the window (as it seems). I recognize myself in the window—along with all the women who came before me. I am a Matryoshka doll, shaped by generations, carrying their stories into the 2020s. There is no me without them—the mothers who unraveled before me, whose joys and sorrows still live alongside my own. I smile at the reflections in the window, and they smile back.
That's all for now. I'll end with a poem by Eeva Kilpi, which beautifully and gently captures all of this.
Yours,
Konu Likka