And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer

by Fredrik Backman

Grandpa wipes his forehead with a faded handkerchief. He’s searching for something in his pockets. Then he looks at the boy’s shoes, the way they swing a few inches above the tarmac with unruly shadows beneath them. “When your feet touch the ground, I’ll be in space, my dear Noahnoah.”

“My memories are running away from me, my love, like when you try to separate oil and water. I’m constantly reading a book with a missing page, and it’s always the most important one.”

“Do you remember what you said, when we first fell in love, that sleeping was a torment?” “Yes. Because we couldn’t share our sleep. Every morning when I blinked awake, the seconds before I knew where I was were unbearable. Until I knew where you were.”

“I know that the way home is getting longer and longer every morning. But I loved you because your brain, your world, was always bigger than everyone else’s. There’s still a lot of it left.”

“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.

Grandpa leans toward Noah and breathes out like people do at the start of a long sleep; one of them is getting bigger and one of them is getting smaller, the years allow them to meet in the middle.

Tell me that that’s what it’s like to fall in love, like you don’t have room for yourself in your own feet.”

“What can we do to help Grandpa?” The dad’s tears dry on the boy’s sweatshirt. “We can walk down the road with him. We can keep him company.”