When the Cranes Fly South

by Lisa Ridzén

No one has ever told me that it’s normal for a person’s eyes to well up as they age, for the tears to find a foothold in virtually every memory.

What I really want is to sleep, so I close my eyes instead of getting up to fetch my glasses. I can almost always escape into sleep. It’s the place where everything is still as it should be, where I still have a say.

Time and memory merge together in a sludge, and there are days when my first few years with you feel closer than last week.

Young folks today just aren’t right; they race about like they’ve only got a week left to live.

“He’s a lovely dog,” she says after a moment, her eyes on Sixten. I feel a rush of pride.

Sixten lowers his head to my belly and closes his eyes again. The tightness in my throat gets even worse, and I feel dizzy. Someone else will take care of Sixten. Someone other than me. But I’m the only one who knows how he likes his ears squeezed.

When I brought Sixten home to live with us, I made him a promise that he could count on me. That I’d be here for him. But I’ve let him down.

I see Sixten’s powerful body running up ahead of me, charging into the meadow in the woods at full speed. He comes racing back to me before turning off toward the stream to cool down. Everything is just as it should be, I think, right before I doze off.

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.