I’m home, spending my Friday night editing old photos for mom. Home in Uppsala. This is the last week I can call Uppsala home. Then it’s back to Stockholm again, to the apartment we moved into when I was three. I’m gonna take care of it for the next eighteen months. Because, did I tell you, my mom is moving to Liberia. Things are changing.
I’m listening to favourite songs from years past and am thinking that I should make a mix CD to Sarah. My first room mate at Duckworth Farm in California. She had such a wonderful taste in music. Ben Folds. She’s in Boston now, I guess.
I’ve made a strawberry milkshake, heavy on the strawberry, and am, strangely enough, missing Hannes. It feels strange not to be able to call him and tell him to come over and watch some Scrubs. He’s in Tanzania with his family. And thinking: when he comes home again, I will have moved back to Stockholm and meeting him will require so much more planning. We’ll be going back to our old every-six-month-fika-routine.
No, I feel a little bit melancholy tonight. But Elin called. In two weeks, we’ll be on the same campus again. The lunch walks will be inevitable. And a text from Natalia reminds me how many episodes of Bones we have to catch up with. Stockholm is good too. It really is.
Katja Malmborg 