And I am home alone. Less than a week ago, I returned from a month-long trip across Europe, sitting on trains watching fields of maize and beech trees deeply rooted in German soils, me rushing rushing on in a blur. There is a lot to write about. I wish I had more days, some emptiness, to formulate the words, let pieces fall into place. As it is, the heartbeat never ceases, seconds turn into days and I know I am lucky. That things do not just stop. But still.
Returning home was such a luxury, though. The smell of wet, rotting leaves on the path that takes me to work. The allotment garden in its saturated early autumn green. Walking around in downtown Stockholm and finding hidden gems, never before seen, right next to streets I have walked on since I was a child.
And going out to the archipelago with good friends for the weekend, to celebrate the yearly crayfish party. The shades of grey on a rainy Friday afternoon. The lively conversations under colorful lights, trivia games, the sound of the fire. The mildness of a sunny September Sunday morning, fresh waffles and mimosas.
Having people who have chosen to be in my life, and to stay, for more than twenty years. It makes something behind my lungs quiver. I think the darkness turns me sentimental.
Katja Malmborg 