Friedhof

Planting flowers at a cemetery in Lomma – the kind of wordless communication contained in the German word Friedhof.

A moment later, a rainstorm struck and my mother and I sought refuge inside the old neo-Romantic brick church. Sitting there by the whitewashed walls, I once again experienced a sense of convergence.

Surprised by my own fervour, I had just composed a long post on the new electronic surveillance bill which the Swedish parliament, despite massive protests, passed last week. Though clearly relevant to a wider international audience, my personal frustration had made it necessary to write in Swedish.

But back there in the church, the converging lines were all too family. As if the only life form I know is one of constant departure – of desperately holding on to that same unfinished hope, despite all evidence to the contrary: 

Och du skrev så vackert då efter midnattsmässan.

Som alltid. Men du har så rätt när du skriver att

det ju finns så mycket mer. 

Så det gör vi. Rymmer en dag i sommar.