Once I was old enough to understand it, the Swedish birthday song always made me sad. I didn't know anybody who had lived to one hundred, and I didn't think I would live to one hundred either. So, every year when my parents and friends sang to me, I felt
Try as I might, I have no memory of what we did the rest of the day, or even of saying goodbye, because it's blended in with all my other visits and all the other goodbyes. Sometimes I try to trick myself into remembering, to observe the day casually from
And when I had taken back my hand from his, he said, "Take care," with such force that it was as though he thought the more emphatically he said it, the more likely it was to happen. That if only I could just bloody take care of myself, I might not die.
And I was aware, as I sometimes am, of the earth moving. That the earth was rotating and pulling us forward, and millions of milliseconds were flying by, and that this moment was precious.
I thought she would wait. I thought there was no way she would leave without saying goodbye. And so it came as a surprise when I peeped out of the window to see if she was crying yet, and found that the taxi had gone and my father had gone with it.
I sat there for perhaps an hour or two trying to decipher the reason for my tears--was it the fact that I had my plans thwarted? That I didn't get to see Father Arthur? The fact that Jacky didn't care that I am dying? Or the fact that I'm dying? Or, perha
