In the middle of June, I moved. Left the apartment in Skarpnäck where I’ve lived since I was three, and moved into a new one on the edge of town, close to Stockholm University. Between twenty and twenty-five, I traveled a lot and also lived in Uppsala for a while, so it wasn’t the first time I left the apartment, not really, but. I have never emptied it. I have always had my room there, with my bed and my book shelves. For twenty-six years, it has been Home.
But now, mom was coming back from Liberia for good and I felt it was time to move on. Get a place of my own. Shed the last skin of my childhood, in a way. It felt exciting. And also: strange. A tinge of melancholy. Seeing my childhood bedroom empty. Looking so much smaller than it did when full of memories and furniture. I hosted The Last Skarpnäck Cake Party, it was a beautiful June evening and after, I slept one last night on a mattress on that empty floor.
And then unpacking in the new place. Realizing how much of my stuff is dedicated to chronicling my life. The books that I’ve read and cared about. The photographs I’ve put in albums, from before everything turned digital. All the folders of high school papers and short stories and four generations of blogs, copied and printed. Journals, CDs, earrings. Such an incredible amount of material for a biographer. I wonder what this obsession of documenting my own life says about me. Moving homes, a degree of rootlessness in the process, made me wonder about life. I have not yet finished the thought.
Hanna allowed me to plant my gazebo rhubarb in her allotment garden. I hope it survives the winter. I hope it manages to adjust to its new environment. I hope I do too.
Katja Malmborg 