Family Histories: LOSS OF A PATRIARCH

 Welcome to Family Histories, a series of guest posts by some of my favorite bloggers in which they explore family . . . and history. The families and the histories are sometimes the writers’ own and sometimes not.

Today ANNIKA PERRY shares poignant memories of her strong but kind fisherman grandfather.


The humid heat radiates around the room as the bright summer sun glares through the wispy cotton curtains. Sleeping bodies are sprawled on the beds, sheets cast aside or crumpled in a heap. The day has arrived. I lay wide-awake. Just thinking; thinking of the day and trying to feel. Trying to feel anything but hot. How pathetic on this day of all days to concentrate on my own selfish needs. I am alive and can enjoy the beauty of sensation, thought, sight. Yes, I am alive. And where is Morfar?

I remember him alive: his teasing, his laughter, the passionate discussions. The interesting chats about world affairs and events closer to home. The mealtimes that ended up resembling global conferences, punctuated with the occasional clanging thump on the table with his big hand as he emphasised a particular point.

fishingHe’d been hard at work for most of his 92 years. Fingers lately swollen and gnarled, but incredibly strong all the same and once in its vice-like grip, my puny fingers didn’t stand a chance. Rue the day the giant crab took Morfar’s thumb in its claw and held. You never had a chance Mr Crab! Morfar’s patience far outlasted yours and sorry, I am sure you were a most delicious dinner – for those who like crustaceans!

Slowly I stand up and pad about the room, take a quick refreshing shower and by six I am dressed in shorts and T-shirt heading outside. The beauty of the day strikes me immediately; it is so quiet, calm and just the right temperature. Everything is sparkling in the brightest clearest hues. The blue sea is still and peaceful. Walking down to the harbour I see a fishing boat heading back in. On many such mornings and many stormy ones too no doubt, Morfar steered his vessel into the harbour. Once he had off-loaded the catch, sorted the nets and cleaned the boat he’d come home for breakfast. Often I would just be awake and at the table munching away on Mormor’s homemade bread and drinking my chocolate milk. All bright and breezy he would come up via the cellar, washing first before greeting me with a teasing “Good Afternoon!” The conversation would be fast and at times incomprehensible as the morning’s catch was discussed; the number of crabs, other fishes, market price. I kept my fingers crossed hoping it had been a good day. After breakfast, as I sauntered to get dressed and ready, Morfar would be out fixing the nets.

I sit down on a bench looking out to the island where he had lived all his life. The blue bridge, which connects the oasis to the neighbouring island, now brings modern life and its opportunities as well as problems that much closer. On the untouched southerly point the rocks ripple in colours of greys and pinks with yellow flowers taking hold in the tiny cracks whilst heathers grow abundantly in the shallow dips, their purple a delicate and beckoning welcome. The two lighthouses guide the way to ships at night. How many times had I climbed those rocks? The same rocks my Mamma grew up on and the same rocks Morfar and his friends clambered.

Wasn’t Morfar just that? A rock: A patriarch to a large family of five children, 19 grandchildren and 20 great-grandchildren and increasing. He was infinitely wise, but always humbly so. Praise was only offered at one’s peril; unwelcome and brusquely brushed aside and a new topic quickly introduced.

These thoughts are going through my mind this summer morning, as anything else seems too grim in this tranquil haven.

I recall the smell of Mormor’s fresh bread filling the house, as I’d quickly dash downstairs to see if I could scrounge some before lunch. I shudder at the memory of the fish odour in the boat, the sight of crabs in the wooden boxes scrabbling to escape, the sensation of bile in my throat as the fishing boat bobbed slowly but sickeningly in the waves as Morfar hauled up the nets. Ever so slowly it seemed to me. Please hurry up, I’d mutter. He’d looked at me surprised, amused at the thought of rushing the act of fishing. I know I wasn’t a natural sailor, but thank you for showing me your world.

Thank you God for reuniting Mormor and Morfar; thank you for letting them be together again. A thought I cling to for the rest of the day, a phrase repeated by many and the only possibility that brings any sense to this madness. That Morfar is no longer with us. Even now, in black and white, the words are too nonsensical.

Morfar is here. He is at home, just back from the net-making factory after doing some work and having a good chin-wag with the chaps down there during morning coffee. Often he jokingly referred to these friends as ‘babies, well most of them were 20 years younger! Whilst eating the homemade cakes, Morfar would start discussions with “well, chaps, what arewe going to talk about today?” Later at the funeral, these warm kind friends brought me to tears as they spoke with such love of my Morfar.

Resigned that I could not stop the day, I head back to the hotel to get ready. Mundane life continues as we prepare to say farewell.

Outside the heat blasts like a furnace. At least in dresses and shawls, us women don’t swelter too much, the men in suits do, however no one complains.

In near silence we drive to the island, first across the bridge. This time the usual tummy butterflies of excitement fail to greet me, instead heavy dullness crashes onto my heart. Cope with this minute, then the next; that mantra is how I struggle through the day. 

The changes on the island are more striking than ever. The newly built houses and marina greet us where before the rolling rocks stretched to the water. The hill up and over to the centre of the island remains the same, as is the tree-lined lane up to Morfar’s house. We pass his house and home. We don’t stop. No, this is all wrong. So wrong. After what feels like an eternity, we finally arrive at the cafe by the old harbour. There is his boat. Not that he has been on it for the past year but it was his. The past tense angers me. Clip-clopping on our high heels we meander along the wooden quay. The sailing boats bobbing rhythmically, children running past playfully, a couple sipping coffee in the shade.  

Our dignified group takes a seat in the shade, the choir rehearsing in the cafe adding certain pathos to the day. The café which used to be a net making factory built by my grandmother’s father and where Morfar used to moor the big trawler and off load the nets, all spread along the wooden pier to dry before repair could begin. History, I’m surrounded by living history. Morfar, I know you are no longer with us, but oh, you are so very much all around us, inside us. Never gone.

The silent morning is broken by a few disjointed mournful utterances. Silence dominates. The crying air is deafening. What is there to say? A few practical points are addressed. Toilet stop. Shoes. Where best to sit. Sun? Shade? Then once again silence.

A smart group walks purposefully towards us along the quay and I realise it’s my brother and his family. I see the resolution in my brother’s eyes. I feel it. To get through this day and not to be too emotional or he will crack. I understand. 

Memories of our last visit to Morfar and our goodbye come to mind. Leaning against the kitchen counter Morfar once again said goodbye. Just before he had given my son the biggest longest hug. The two of them squeezing each other like there was no tomorrow. My son engulfed by this huge man and his love for his great-grandchild. My son who loved and respected his great-grandfather so much. His ultimate hero. Their greatness and goodness so alike. Holding him out, Morfar looked at my son and my little man returned the warm thoughtful gaze. A farewell hug to last a lifetime. Morfar hugged with me with strength and depth, yet I sensed his inner weakness, his frailty. It was not commented on, but definitely noticeable; his appetite was near non-existent and he seemed in constant pain. Subconsciously I wondered whether we would we see him again – a thought I immediately dismissed.

It was hard leaving him after our wonderful days together. We all had such fun, joviality and laughter and felt closer than ever. A journey of discovery had been undertaken and completed with a quiet resolution. Everything felt right.

The gleaming white church stands on the hill, towering over the park and gardens. The beautiful gardens created by the fishermen over 50 years ago and tended by them and their wives. A few years ago a moment of insanity drove the local council to rip up the fragrant border of pink wild roses and replace it with a plain white picket fence.

I walk towards my three fishermen cousins, who live on the island with their families and were particularly close to Morfar; they are already red-eyed and totally inconsolable. No words are exchanged. Just hugs. Us grandchildren are self-conscious and self-aware in our grief. Looking around I notice Mamma talking warmly to her siblings, father’s friends, to her cousins, sharing tears and hugs. So natural and right. We have a lot to learn.

The bright light outside throws the foyer into a gloomy darkness. Or is it just my soul? We wait. As always we are early. Then it time and the door to the main church opens.

A glorious warm light strikes us and I spot the beams up to the high vaulted ceilings. White and wood. Wood. There he lays in the light wood coffin surrounded by a variety of flowers with the anchor, designed by Mamma ,in white and blue flowers, resting at its feet. The coffin. The reason we are here and yet again I feel anger and a sense of finality. 

A single angelic voice radiates around the room and tears at our hearts. The first verse is the serene acappella of ‘Amazing Grace’ then the soft tones of instruments are layered with the voice and finally, the soul-wrenching choir comes in; it is heavenly and moving beyond words. Here is our release. Mamma, at last, cries her heart out. Most are moved to tears and beyond. It is as if the song never wants to end. No, don’t stop, I want to cry out. This is enough. Just let us sit here, listen to this ethereal infinity and feel. Alas the song ends, now we are all shaken to the core.

The service ranges from the everyday to the deeply touching. The talk of Morfar ‘going home’ seems fine the first time. I can relate to the imagery here. But the numerous repetitions drive me to distraction. “He had a lovely warm home,” I want to stand up and shout at the top of my lungs. A home built into the hard granite rocks that he helped blow up and haul by hand up the hill, a white wooden house with lots of steps. He had his chair right where it should be, in front of the TV and don’t you dare come and disturb him now, it’s time for the news. A home he lived in for 67 years. It is his home; rock solid, waiting for him, now so lonely and sad.

At one stage people come to the front and say a few words. At this point I collapse in tears as one of his friends recalls Morfar and some of their good times. He paints such a true picture of the man, his life and vitality that I expect Morfar to walk through the door with a funny teasing comment. Even his grand age becomes the subject of his wit as at lunch one day Morfar commented that he had been told he was now officially the oldest person on the island. As silence descended, everyone was unsure what to add, Morfar filled the gap with a sardonic, “And that is not always a good thing!”

 The choir consists mainly of Mamma’s cousins, singing some beautiful songs, some of his favourites and some I remember Mormor singing as she cleaned, baked, cooked.

Suddenly I am at their house, transported away from the church. Mormor bending down to the living room floor and giving it a loud couple of knocks with her knuckles. Ouch, that must have hurt. Morfar downstairs in the cellar, busy with the nets and as usual he’d failed to hear her initial call down the stairs that lunch was ready. She’d asked me to knock on the floor but was unimpressed with my quiet feeble efforts and so had come over to sort the job herself as usual; she was always so efficient and fast in all her actions. After lunch Morfar would lay down on that very same floor, just a cushion under his head and rest for 20 minutes whilst we, the grandchildren, would have fun jumping over him to see if he woke, or reacted at all, but to no avail.

The service is drawing to an end. Despite my earlier inner predictions that someone would faint from heat exhaustion we are all still very much alert.

The night before we had written little notes to place on the coffin. At the time we thought we might feel self-conscious leaving them there, but no, how wrong we were. We walk respectfully past, we all pause for a moment, place our notes carefully under some flowers or ribbons, bid our inner goodbyes.

Soon it is time to leave the church. With resolve my brother and five of my cousins move to the front and take their place by Morfar’s coffin. Eighteen years ago he was one of six to lift Mormor’s coffin onto their shoulders and carry her out to the hearse. Handles this time, but I wonder, what is he feeling? He is never a man to speak easily of emotions, if at all, I am troubled for my brother. He has, literally, had so many burdens to bear.

The bells toll ever so slowly, so mournfully and resonate with sorrow and loss; echoing the moment and all our emotions. Later, we walk towards the grave and see Morfar’s coffin laid out on slats, placed above the hole. My brother once again, along with our cousins, takes the weight of the coffin as the slats are removed and lower it slowly to his final resting place. I know this would soon be it, our final farewell to Morfar.  

A few more words are said by the priest – reiterating once again the phrase of  ‘going home’, a song is sung and people step forward for one last farewell. I have said mine and so remain back. My brother and his family step forward and I hear a gentle clang. Oh yes, the stone from the island picked by my nephew the day before. How perfect to throw it down and leave forever a fragment of the island with Morfar. Perfect cosmic balance.

I lift my head and gaze across the blue sea with its sparkling dance as ripples of diamond light reflect on the water. There you are Morfar. My eyes move to the rocks and trees. I can feel you Morfar. Quickly I glance up at the sunlit sky. Yes, you are there too. Not in that deep dark hole. Most of all, you will live forever in our hearts. Missing you forever, the earthly human contact now gone and mourned, but you are still here. Reunited with your beloved wife and lifetime companion, reunited with your long-lost parents, seeing your brothers and sisters once again. You are with them as well as with us. 

Hope the fishing is good Morfar, catch lots of crabs won’t you and look out for that thumb! Who knows, you might meet your match one day in the form of a very patient huge crab!


©Annika Perry


Judy Collins – Amazing Grace


Hungry for more? Here is a piece about Annika’s GRANDMOTHER

And another about the FISHERMEN of old.


 forget me not promo

65 responses to “Family Histories: LOSS OF A PATRIARCH”

  1. Reblogged this on Annika Perry's Writing Blog and commented:
    Family Histories! Initially when asked by Adrienne Morris to write a guest post on the topic of family history I was honoured whilst also daunted. The scope seemed tremendous and ideas whirled in my head. However, a few days later I remembered a piece I wrote soon after my grandfather’s death and funeral in Sweden. A rough, heartfelt essay of 3,500 words had been neglected in my computer. I approached it with trepidation.

    In all its roughness, I found a potential in the essay that could be included as a part Adrienne’s wonderful series. My editing and rewrite reduced it to a more manageable size and I hope you enjoy reading ‘Loss of a Patriarch’ – not just the story of a funeral rather of a life that touched us all, of a life lived to the full over 92 years, of the life and changes of the island.

    Liked by 2 people

      • Thank you so much, Bernadette; it feels like a massive responsibility to write about my grandfather as I want to do him justice…he was truly a great man. There aren’t many days where I don’t think of my grandparents – and draw strength from them. I was indeed lucky to have him so long in my life and I’m always happy that my son got a chance to connect with him and will always remember him as well.

        Liked by 2 people

  2. Adrienne, warmest thanks for this wonderful opportunity feature on your blog – it’s been an honour and gave me the nudge to revisit sad/happy memories. A joy to work with you. Hugs ❤️


  3. You were so lucky to hear his ‘laughter and passionate discussions,’ having a patriarch around to take care of all, is a blessing Annika. My grandfather didn’t live to see my birth and my father too left for his heavenly abode when I was a mere girl of 12. Tears well up in my eyes as I read your beautiful words of so much love that gleams through your words.
    As always your language…so poetic with a lyrical touch adds extra charm to this piece, a befitting homage to the memories that you gathered…emotions that seem to overflow, getting up to embrace…back and forth in time! Outstanding! ‘the past tense angers me’… (me too)
    May his soul rest in peace and continue to inspire you. Thanks for sharing a plethora of emotions through this homage.

    Liked by 2 people

    • Balroop, I’m tearing up reading your heartfelt and moving comment. I always realised (well since my mid teens) how lucky I was to have both my grandparents so much part of my life and vice versa and as you can tell they left an indelible impression on my heart and soul. Morfar’s passing felt like the end of an era and you’re right about the ‘plethora’ of emotions, which were overflowing. The initial piece was chaotic, so rough – a huge edit to achieve this final result, as a poet yourself I feel honoured and touched that you find the writing lyrical. Thank you.

      My heart goes out to you losing your father so young and I hear the child within you as your write of him. I’m so sorry you never had the chance to meet your grandfather…never had a chance to make your own memories with him. Virtual hugs winging their way across the ocean to you. Xx❤️

      Liked by 1 person

    • I remember when my father died it seemed like something faraway on the television. I bought a black skirt and kept thinking I’d handle it just like Jackie Kennedy–stoic and beautiful. Some said my reading at the funeral showed a softer, gentler side of me, but I knew it was play-acting. Our family spun out of control soon after–no one was able to play the roles my father had given us without him there. His death changed everything.

      It is funny how differently we handle things.


  4. So beautiful, Annika. What lovely writing about a man who meant so much to you. You capture the swirl of emotions that accompany funerals – the sadness and missing, of course, but also the wonderful memories, the appreciation and love, and the life lived well. All of it adds up to such a poignant picture of a special person and the gift of his life. Thanks so much for sharing. ❤

    Liked by 2 people

    • Diana, thank you so much for reading and understanding on such a deep level – whirlwind of emotions sums the day up exactly. I felt childish and inadequate with all my raw feelings…but had to let them play out. His life was indeed a gift…thank you for putting is so beautifully. ❤️

      Liked by 2 people

  5. Annika, this so beautiful, I had to read it twice. I felt like I was there and could see your grandfather just as you described him. Such beautiful writing, I will keep a copy of this… jc

    Liked by 3 people

    • JC, I feel honoured to share my memory of my Morfar here and to know that he comes alive to dear people like yourself lifts my spirits so. Thank you for reading twice (a long piece I know only too well) – and I feel humbled that you are keeping a copy.

      Liked by 2 people

  6. Your tribute to your mortar is extraordinary. The way you make him feel real here amongst us. Vividly you show us his strength and humour, his love and patience.
    Also how working can be a passion and not something dreary. How age becomes just a number as long as you can partake in life and love.
    The love of several generations. How rich you and your family are and you describe your Mormor with equal love.
    How great the loss and yet, how great the inheritance of these values.
    Bless you Annika

    Liked by 2 people

    • Miriam, it is indeed a richness beyond words and I’m very touched by your thought of his love and being in my and everyone’s life as an inheritance – so true and beautifully phrased…His work ethic was fantastic and he always shone with satisfaction after coming home, even if slightly tired at times after a stormy night. He has much to teach us yet and the memory of him is still reaching out to so many and lifting our hearts. Deepest and warmest thanks for your wonderful comment. ❤️

      Liked by 2 people

  7. Such a wonderful tribute Annika. I loved the image of him being a rock and the vivid descriptions of his love of the sea.
    I guess he knew when he hugged your son so hard.
    A wonderful life well lived and loved. 🌼🌼🌼

    Liked by 2 people

    • Brigid, I thought of that afterwards – that he knew and I recall the final farewell like it happened yesterday. My son and Morfar seemed as one, so alike in so many ways. It is a comfort to know he had a wonderful life, great love and children, grandchildren and great grandchildren and a career in fishing that lasted, well, a lifetime. The rock image gets me through many difficult times and even now his, and the memory of my grandmother as well, give me strength. Your warm reflective and understanding comment brings me comfort – thank you so much.❤️


    • Jacqui, your three words sums him up perfectly and I feel you must have met him!! My Morfar made a huge and lasting impression on anyone he met. Thank you so much for reading and commenting; your words mean a lot to me.

      Liked by 1 person

  8. What a wonderful tribute to your beloved Morfar. You’ve gently immersed me in his life and in the lives of your family in Sweden, on a little island that changed over the course of his lifetime. Yet he remained stalwart and strong, carrying his fisherman’s labor as tenaciously as he carried his responsibilities in all things. Look how much he gave you in memories and principles. I was touched by admiration throughout and by surprise on occasion, as when your cousin chose a rock to place in the grave. We memorialize those we love with rituals meant to bring us peace, with stories to console us, but ultimately, we know those we love are not in their graves. They are with us wherever we go. Annika, you are very fortunate to have had this man as a part of your life.

    Liked by 2 people

    • Shari, I feel as if we are walking along the same road on the island, talking, as if you’ve been there and met my dear Morfar. Your kind warm words sum him up and the impact he had on us all. Your heartfelt comment and particularly your last sentences have me in gentle tears…empathy is a real gift and you are generous and open with your understanding and it feels good to hear what I know so well…they are with us wherever we go.❤️

      Liked by 2 people

  9. What a wonderful, heartfelt tribute to your grandfather, Annika. The passing of a loved one is so bittersweet–we can be okay one moment, and in desperate tears the next. The history around your grandfather’ story is rich, almost tangible in these words. Well done!

    Liked by 3 people

    • Julie, warmest thanks for your lovely thoughtful comment – the dichotomy of emotions is so confusing as you so rightly say. It is a privilege to be able to share some of my Morfar’s stories here with kind friends like yourself who take such time and consideration to read and absorb. Hugs xx❤️

      Liked by 3 people

  10. This is a wonderful eulogy to your grandfather. When we lose parents and grandparents, especially when they have been strong, vibrant people like your Morfar, we become almost child-like and lost, sorrowful and lonely, angry and almost resentful that they could abandon us. Everything that we see and hear and experience during these days of grief are so clear in our memories. Fortunately, time softens the sharpest pangs of sorrow but we are changed for ever.

    Liked by 4 people

    • Clare, I mentioned in one of my comments how I was embarrassed by what I felt were child-like emotions – your words here sum up exactly my turmoil of feelings. It’s so odd how crystal clear the day still is…but yes, the feelings and thoughts are softened, more focused and mature. Bless you for your lovely considered comment and for expressing what I hardly dared. Another reason I was extremely nervous of this post but have ultimately felt so cossetted with love and understanding by yourself and others. Heartfelt thanks. ❤️

      Liked by 2 people

  11. Dear Adrienne, thank you for spurring on Annika. We may never have read this loving and beautiful essay. . .
    Annika, having a grandfather like yours is spectacular. One who openly expressed emotions, who shared his life, who told stories you will remember forever. Thank you for all the details which helped me to picture this well loved strong character. The whole day showed the emotional highs and lows, while being direct and simply expressed. hugs from me to you. xo 💐 💕

    Liked by 2 people

    • Robin, heartfelt thanks for your beautiful comment. ❤️ You are so right, without Adrienne’s approach and support I would have never published this piece – at first re-reading of the it I was daunted by the edit required but Adrienne was so keen to see it so I was inspired to continue! Oh, my Morfar’s stories were wonderful and it was more a matter of dragging them out of him as he never wanted to ‘bore’ us with them. As always, I wish I’d written more of them down at the time – the one about the house being built made a lasting impression! I’m so glad you got a good sense of the man from my words here…that gives me comfort. Hugs xx ❤️😀

      Liked by 1 person

  12. Through your words, Annika, your grandfather seems larger than life. Definitely larger than death. He is all around you and your family, and now, he is within and around your readers. YOU brought him back to life in such strong fabulous prose. I can see him. I can hear him. And I can certainly understand how much you miss him. Thank you for sharing your grandfather with us all here.


    • Pam, first of all, I am so sorry for not seeing your comment until now.

      Bless you, for your wonderful words about my grandfather…now, I start the day with gentle warm tears, but the good kind. I always thought of him as larger than life but you’re right, larger than death too. This was a difficult personal piece to write and mostly as I wanted to honour him, his life and impact on us all…reading your comment reassures me I succeeded. Heartfelt thanks…and yes, I miss him and my grandmother so much.

      Liked by 2 people

      • You honored him in so many ways: your memory of him and of the kind of man he was, and by sharing your feelings, you inspired us all to be honored and loving grandparents now (or when we reach that stage…) xo

        Liked by 1 person

  13. Your words create a lovely account of your wonderful grandfather, Annika. I feel as though I came to know him through your amazing writing, and I’m so sorry for your loss…
    When I saw the title of your post, it resonated with me because my dad recently passed away. He was the Patriarch of my family, and lived to be 97. My mom was 90 when she passed away five years ago. Our blessing is knowing my dad is at peace now, that all suffering has ended. But most importantly, my parents are together again. Dad’s motto was, “Love Lives On” and so it does eternally now. They were married for 67 years, together for 70. For my sisters and I, it has been a life-changing event, losing both parents. Surreal, to say the least, knowing we are at the top of our family tree now.
    Anyway, thanks so much for sharing your story, and I apologize for the long comment. I just had to convey how your story touched me. I send my condolences to your family. May your grandfather’s stories and the wonderful memories you have comfort you during this time of grieving…
    ~Lauren ❤


    • Lauren, first of all, my sincerest apology for not seeing your touching comment until now…I am so sorry.

      My heart goes out to you at the loss of both your parents and I’m so moved by your wonderful descriptions of them both. What a beautiful motto to live by and yes, love will travel onto eternity. It is so tough to lose a patriarch and one’s whole world becomes unbalanced and my mother mentioned also the surreal feeling of being at the top of the family tree (she is also the eldest).

      Warmest thanks for sharing, understanding, reading…my memories of my grandparents do give me comfort, often raise a smile, and it is as if they’re here with me buffetting me against life, providing the stabilising rock for us all. I hope you feel comfort from your parents long and wonderful life together. Warmest wishes & hugs, Annika xx

      Liked by 2 people

      • Hi Annika, no worries, at all. Sometimes comments slip away. It’s happened to me, too. Anyway, we’re doing better, but the grieving hasn’t ended. Today is actually the 3 month anniversary of my dads passing. Time does heal, but occasionally tears will come again, as now we have all the “firsts” to endure…I loved reading your post, and love what you wrote about your grandparents buffeting you against life, providing the stabilizing rock for you all. That’s how I feel about my parents, and I do feel comfort from their long, good marriage, and long, healthy lives. I think the main saving grace of losing them is knowing they’re together again. Eternal love…Hugs to you, my friend 💕

        Liked by 1 person

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