Stars on the ground

Olle is annoyed about something when he gets out of the double bed next to me. I can tell from his silent, hurried manner. Nothing demands urgency today. Yet he is out in the garage, working on the boat engine for a whole hour before the autumn sun has glinted in our bedroom window, and I get up as well.

I feel weak today. I make my way to the kitchen table. The unfinished crossword puzzle begs for attention, but I can’t muster the energy. I look at the refrigerator door. An unpaid bill from Telia, our phone company. An old photo of the girls from a Midsummer's Eve in the Swedish countryside, held up by a red heart-shaped magnet. I reach out and touch the white edge of the picture with my finger. I remember the scents of freshly cut grass, the coffee that had been left too long on the heater, and the strawberries from the garden, waiting to be rinsed before lunch. Alva is laughing into the camera while Ella grimaces at Lova, who has taken her midsummer wreath. I feel so proud of them now, the feeling radiates through me, overflowing. Olle and I - we were blessed with three sweet, smart, wonderful daughters.

But now the old house is quiet, so still it’s deafening. The aged wood invites the walls and floorboards to creak to one another. If only I understood what they wanted to tell us. From the time when we all lived here. The girls' rooms remain half-empty since they moved out, one by one, scattered over Europe. Alva in Lisbon, Ella in London and Lova in Paris, all three pursuing their dreams.

I hear Olle outside in the garden now, gathering the fallen leaves. He’s talking loudly as he always does, both to himself and to the dog, in rhythm with the strokes of the rake. He curses the U.S. election and Trump. The Russians’ terror bombings of Ukraine. He elaborates on Hammarby, the local Stockholm football team. On why they lost their latest match and missed the chance to win the gold this season. Everything is messed up, he says. Everything is going to hell. I hear Sigge, our dog, bark as if in agreement.

I walk over to the living room window. The curtains are light and airy, yet the room feels heavy. Sigge has found a sunny spot in the grass to rest on while he chews on an old bone. Olle stands beside the wheelbarrow with his back bent, surrounded by piles of yellow, red, and brown leaves. Behind him, I see the cherry tree he planted on our fifth wedding anniversary. The leaves from the tree have fallen, they lie like a brown brittle wreath on the lawn waiting to be scattered by the wind. Everything we built, everything we lived, is falling to pieces. Olle drops the rake and pats Sigge, scratching him on the chest. He takes the bone and throws it across the lawn. Sigge happily rushes to fetch it, wagging his tail fervently on his way back.

I need to rest.

The doorbell rings. I startle, the room is already dark, the day already a memory. Have I slept? Sigge barks loudly from the living room. I hear Olle on his way to open, while I get up and look toward the front door. A witch, a zombie, and a skeleton stand outside, all half-sized. Children’s voices shout, “Trick-or-treat!”. Two grown-ups stand watching by our garden gate, smiling at their children's delight. Small hands dig into the bowl of candy that Olle is holding out. Their laughter crackles like sparks in the hallway, and I don’t want them to leave. Olle closes the door, looks at Sigge, and asks cheerfully, “It is time for a walk, isn't it?” Sigge barks and wags his tail.

We head out into the chilly November evening, the three of us. We follow the stream of people on All Saints’ Day, all heading toward Skogskyrkogården, the world-famous cemetery. Even though it’s mild, Olle has already brought out his winter jacket, always the one feeling cold. I hold one arm around Olle’s, sensing his warmth, his closeness. I like to go for walks, but I can’t go very far anymore. It’s fortunate we live nearby. Olle nods a greeting to a passing neighbor. He’s not one to waste unnecessary words. Unless talking to himself.

We arrive at the vast, old cemetery. It’s like a starry sky scattered on the ground in the darkness. Candles flicker in their holders, like captured stars. “It really is beautiful,” Olle says, his voice slightly hoarse. I nod in silence, wishing I could stop time.

Olle stops by a grave that is already filled with fresh flowers and burning candles. I recognize it, but I pretend that I don’t. He takes a grave lantern out of the paper bag he brought with him and lights it. Sigge pees on the grave next to us. I laugh, but it’s more of a reflex. Olle looks down at the grave, at the gray granite stone where my name is engraved in golden letters. I read them, still not wanting to take them in. In loving memory of… We carry her laughter in our hearts forever… 

“Marianne, I miss you,” he says softly, and my stomach ties in a knot, even though I no longer really have a stomach. I want to say something, place my hand on his shoulder, but my hands can’t reach him, not really. They haven’t for almost two years now.

He stands there for a long time, as if time has stopped. His cheeks are wet. Sigge whines softly by his side, sensing the tension. I wish I could hold him, hug him. Tell him he’s not alone. That I’m here, even if he doesn’t see it, doesn’t feel it. But eventually, he straightens up, sighs deeply, and begins to walk toward the exit. Back to our house.

And I follow him, always.