When the Cranes Fly South

by Lisa Ridzén

I feel a sudden fondness for the old man in the mirror. It’s not bloody easy, being human.

Hans called the office to say that Bo’s friend Ture has passed away. Bo glum and quiet. Made tea with lots of sugar. Johanna

Bo in bed, in and out of sleep. Low mood. Tells me to write that there’s nothing to say when I ask how he is. Gave him medicine and left tea and porridge on table. Ingrid

I’ve been driving along these roads for nine decades, but I’m still struck by just how beautiful it is, and I never want to leave. At the same time, I wish it could be the last time I ever see it as we pass the brow of the hill.

“Is it normal for it to take this long?” Hans whispers. Am I not dying fast enough? I feel like a burden. Like I’m stopping Hans and everyone else from getting on with all the other things they need to do. I open my eyes and meet our son’s eyes. When I nod, his face cracks into a smile. “He’s awake.”

I hear the clicking of claws and smell his familiar scent before my palm has time to register his soft fur. “Do you really think he knows?” Hans asks. “I’m sure of it,” says Ingrid. My body rocks as Sixten jumps up into his usual spot beside my left leg. A sense of calm spreads through me. He realizes that I can’t pat him with my hand, and he lowers his head to my stomach.

It’s dark, and I can’t see a thing, but the scent of Sixten’s coat finds its way in, causing something inside me to shift. To be rearranged. I feel his damp nose digging beneath my palm, and he presses himself against my body. Everything is crystal clear. A window opens, and I hear the cranes gathering to fly south.

3:30 a.m. Bo passes away quietly in his sleep. He looks so peaceful, not in any pain. His hand is on Sixten, who is lying by his side. I’ve lit a candle and called Hans. Ingrid