While You Were Sleeping
A cold cup of coffee, two sleeping daughters and an old house in Lima made me think about something I'd ignored for most of my life.
It’s three o’clock in the morning.
You two are still asleep upstairs. At least I hope you are. I can hear the little stream below the house, the birds have already started their morning concert and I’m sitting here with a cup of coffee that’s gone cold because I forgot to drink it. I should really get up and do my morning exercises, but somehow this morning feels too good to interrupt.
It’s funny where your thoughts end up when nobody else is awake.
When I first started coming back to Lima after Dagmar had moved into the care home, I thought I was bringing you here so you could see where part of our family came from. The house wasn’t much to boast about back then. Sometimes there wasn’t even any water. Hot showers certainly weren’t part of the experience. I don’t think either of you came because the house was comfortable.
You came because we came.
Now I look around and almost have to laugh. The house have become a true paradise!
Dana, before anyone else has even opened their eyes you’ve reorganised the kitchen because, according to you, it makes more sense like this. You keep finding jobs that need doing. Cupboards. Shelves. Things that have annoyed me for days somehow stop being a problem because you’ve quietly sorted them out. I honestly have no idea where you learned that because it certainly wasn’t from me. Give me something practical and my first reaction is stress. Yours seems to be curiosity.
Eva, you’re different. Thank goodness for that. You disappear with a book for a while, then suddenly you’re back in the middle of everything again. You still tell me you’re shy and socially awkward, usually while smiling. After everything you’ve gone through with your eyes and your arthritis, I don’t think you even realise how tough you’ve become.
The lovely thing is that neither of you seems to think very much about any of this. You’re simply making this place yours. And I’ve been thinking about Dagmar while we’ve been here.
She spent almost her whole life on this property. First helping on the farm, later working at the elderly home. She could talk longer than anyone I’ve ever met. Sometimes we honestly wondered how she found time to breathe. And if you visited, you always got pork chops with brown gravy and potatoes, followed by apple pie with vanilla sauce. Every single time. Looking back, I suspect she simply thought:
“If this is the nicest meal I know how to cook, why would I serve my family anything else?”
I wish you’d known her as adults. You’d have loved her.
Every evening we’ve ended up in the sauna. Years ago you both hated saunas. Now we sit there talking until someone notices it’s getting late. About football. About school. About the sailing that’s waiting for us. About nothing in particular. Nobody reaches for a phone. Nobody seems to want the evening to end.
A few days ago someone told me that people have been driving past just to look at the house. I wasn’t quite sure what to think. If I’m honest, I expected a few sour comments. Instead people stop us in the supermarket or in Sälen just to say they’re happy for us. They ask about you. They remember old expeditions I’d almost forgotten myself.
That surprised me.
For most of my life I never thought much about roots. Home was wherever I happened to pitch my tent. Chile. Siberia. Yemen. Greenland. It never seemed to matter because I always knew I’d leave again.
Now I’m not so sure. Not because of this house. Because of the two of you.
One day you’ll probably come here without me. Maybe with your own families. Maybe alone. Maybe just because you need a few quiet days listening to the stream, sitting in the sauna or watching the forest from the balcony with a cup of coffee that’s gone cold.
I hope you do.
Sometimes, while you’re both asleep upstairs, I imagine Dagmar walking out onto this balcony. I don’t think she’d say very much at first. That alone would have been remarkable. She’d look around. Shake her head. Smile. Then she’d ask:
“Is this really true?”
“Yes,” I’d tell her.
“It is.”
“And don’t worry. We’re looking after your place.”
