And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer

by Fredrik Backman

Hyacinths are blooming beneath the bench, a million tiny purple arms reaching up from the stalks to embrace the rays of sunlight.

“When a star fades it takes a long time for us to realize, as long as it takes for the last of its light to reach Earth.”

“When a brain fades it takes a long time for the body to realize. The human body has a tremendous work ethic; it’s a mathematical masterpiece, it’ll keep working until the very last light.

“The only time you’ve failed is if you don’t try once more.”

“Our teacher made us write a story about what we want to be when we’re big,” Noah tells him. “What did you write?” “I wrote that I wanted to concentrate on being little first.” “That’s a very good answer.” “Isn’t it? I would rather be old than a grown-up. All grown-ups are angry, it’s just children and old people who laugh.”

“We’ll have plenty of chances to practice. You’ll be good at it. Almost all grown adults walk around full of regret over a good-bye they wish they’d been able to go back and say better. Our good-bye doesn’t have to be like that, you’ll be able to keep redoing it until it’s perfect. And once it’s perfect, that’s when your feet will touch the ground and I’ll be in space, and there won’t be anything to be afraid of.”

“I can’t remember.” He suddenly sounds so afraid. His body is heavy, his voice is weak, and his skin is a sail about to be abandoned by the wind.

“My memories are running away from me, my love, like when you try to separate oil and water.

“You never became ordinary to me, my love. You were electric shocks and fire.”

“I mean on the inside. Does it hurt on the inside?” “It hurts less and less. That’s one good thing about forgetting things. You forget the things that hurt too.”

“When you’ve forgotten a person, do you forget you’ve forgotten?” “No, sometimes I remember that I’ve forgotten. That’s the worst kind of forgetting. Like being locked out in a storm. Then I try to force myself to remember harder, so hard that the whole square here shakes.”

“Death isn’t fair.” “No, death is a slow drum. It counts every beat. We can’t haggle with it for more time.”

. . . she . . . that’s your grandma. She was younger. You never got to meet her young, she has . . . she had the strongest feelings I ever experienced in a person, when she got angry she could empty a full bar of grown men, and when she was happy . . . there was no defending yourself against that, Noahnoah. She was a force of nature. Everything I am came from her, she was my Big Bang.”

“I’ll tell you about her when you forget, Grandpa. First thing every morning, first of all I’ll tell you about her.”

“He’s not angry at you, he’s angry at the universe. He’s angry because your enemy isn’t something he can fight.”

‘Ted, we’re not going into space because we’re afraid of aliens. We’re going because we’re scared we’re alone. It’s an awfully big universe to be alone in.’ ”

You can’t be afraid of crossing dark gardens if you’re laughing.

That’s why we get the chance to spoil our grandchildren, because by doing that we’re apologizing to our children.”

If you tie this string around your wrist you can keep hold of the balloon when you fall asleep, and when you get scared you just need to yank it and I’ll pull you back. Every time.”

It’s a big universe to be angry at but a long life to have company in.