address a letter to her childhood home? She felt a pang of conscience when she saw the address. The house up there that was falling apart. The garden that would probably be impenetrable by now. The pride and joy of her parents. That was where they had spent any spare time they had after their devoted commitments to the Congregation.
How she missed them. To think it was possible to leave behind such a void.
âI tell you, Saba. You would have liked my parents, you would. Itâs a shame you never got a chance to meet them.â
She hadnât been able to go back there. Couldnât face the shame of showing herself up there, not the way she looked, so the house would have to stay the way it was. There was probably no hope of getting much for it, way out there in the sticks. It must have been the Hedmans who forwarded the letter. They had stopped writing to ask whether she intended to sell the house or at least do something about the furniture, but she assumed that they still looked in at regular intervals. Maybe mostly for their own sake. It might not be very pleasant living next door to a dilapidated and deserted house. Or else they had cleared it out on their own initiative and had stopped communicating because they had a guilty conscience. You couldnât trust anybody nowadays.
   Â
She looked around for something to cut open the envelope with. She couldnât possibly wedge her finger into that tiny gap. But the claw on her picker-upper worked just fine, as usual.
The letter was hand-written on lined paper withholes down one side and looked like it came from a college notebook.
Hi Majsan!
Majsan? That was a bit familiar.
She swallowed hard. Deep in the convolutions of her brain a tiny scrap of memory detached itself.
She instantly felt a desire to stuff something in her mouth, the need to swallow something. She looked around but there was nothing within reach.
She resisted the temptation to turn over the sheet of paper to see who had written it; or maybe it was just the opposite, maybe she really preferred not to know.
So many years since she had last heard that nickname.
Who had travelled down through the years, uninvited, and forced themselves in through her letterbox?
I know you must be wondering why Iâm writing to you after all these years. To be honest, I have to admit I was a little hesitant to sit down and write this letter, but now at least Iâve decided to do it. The explanation will probably sound even more peculiar to you, but I might as well tell you the truth. I had such a strange dream a few nights ago. It made a big impression, and it was about you, and when I woke up there was something inside me that told me to write this letter. I have learned (at long last and after hard lessons) to listen to strong impulses. Well, so much for that â¦
I donât know how much you know about me and how my life has turned out. But I can imagine that people talked about it a good deal back home, and I understand perfectly if you donât want to have any contact with me. Iâm not in touch with anyone in my family or anyone else from back home. As you can tell, I have plenty of time to think about things here, and I think a lot about when we were growing up and everything we took with us from those years, and how much it affected us later in life. Thatâs why Iâm so curious to hear how youâre doing these days! I sincerely hope that everything worked out and youâre doing well. Since I donât know where you are now or what your married name is (for the life of me I canât remember Göranâs last name!) Iâm going to send this letter to your childhood home. If itâs meant to reach you Iâm sure it will. Otherwise it will just circulate around for a while and keep the post office busy which Iâm sure would be a good thing since I hear theyâre having hard times .
In any case â¦
I hope with all my heart that in
How she missed them. To think it was possible to leave behind such a void.
âI tell you, Saba. You would have liked my parents, you would. Itâs a shame you never got a chance to meet them.â
She hadnât been able to go back there. Couldnât face the shame of showing herself up there, not the way she looked, so the house would have to stay the way it was. There was probably no hope of getting much for it, way out there in the sticks. It must have been the Hedmans who forwarded the letter. They had stopped writing to ask whether she intended to sell the house or at least do something about the furniture, but she assumed that they still looked in at regular intervals. Maybe mostly for their own sake. It might not be very pleasant living next door to a dilapidated and deserted house. Or else they had cleared it out on their own initiative and had stopped communicating because they had a guilty conscience. You couldnât trust anybody nowadays.
   Â
She looked around for something to cut open the envelope with. She couldnât possibly wedge her finger into that tiny gap. But the claw on her picker-upper worked just fine, as usual.
The letter was hand-written on lined paper withholes down one side and looked like it came from a college notebook.
Hi Majsan!
Majsan? That was a bit familiar.
She swallowed hard. Deep in the convolutions of her brain a tiny scrap of memory detached itself.
She instantly felt a desire to stuff something in her mouth, the need to swallow something. She looked around but there was nothing within reach.
She resisted the temptation to turn over the sheet of paper to see who had written it; or maybe it was just the opposite, maybe she really preferred not to know.
So many years since she had last heard that nickname.
Who had travelled down through the years, uninvited, and forced themselves in through her letterbox?
I know you must be wondering why Iâm writing to you after all these years. To be honest, I have to admit I was a little hesitant to sit down and write this letter, but now at least Iâve decided to do it. The explanation will probably sound even more peculiar to you, but I might as well tell you the truth. I had such a strange dream a few nights ago. It made a big impression, and it was about you, and when I woke up there was something inside me that told me to write this letter. I have learned (at long last and after hard lessons) to listen to strong impulses. Well, so much for that â¦
I donât know how much you know about me and how my life has turned out. But I can imagine that people talked about it a good deal back home, and I understand perfectly if you donât want to have any contact with me. Iâm not in touch with anyone in my family or anyone else from back home. As you can tell, I have plenty of time to think about things here, and I think a lot about when we were growing up and everything we took with us from those years, and how much it affected us later in life. Thatâs why Iâm so curious to hear how youâre doing these days! I sincerely hope that everything worked out and youâre doing well. Since I donât know where you are now or what your married name is (for the life of me I canât remember Göranâs last name!) Iâm going to send this letter to your childhood home. If itâs meant to reach you Iâm sure it will. Otherwise it will just circulate around for a while and keep the post office busy which Iâm sure would be a good thing since I hear theyâre having hard times .
In any case â¦
I hope with all my heart that in
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