and the fields weren't just fields - there were stalks, too, individual plants, woven and shining, curlicues, branches, colors, and the whole thing was a pattern and the whole thing spoke to me, telling me of a wealth that cannot be measured and is often overlooked.

shedding skin where ever i step, it seems. it prickles. rapidly multiplying angles poking up. a sheaf of myself, copies are floating to the floor and dissolving in the rain. or swept up by the wind and carried out - to sea, to sand, to sky. tremble at the thought of my own potential but still find it beautiful to cower with gratitude. bow and be free.

there are three things you can count on in the kitchen of the yellow house at the end of the road in overtornea. one, that she'll be at the stove, stirring gluey grød or salty chunks of dark moose meat. elsewise she'll shuffle to the fridge to take out the tin box and slowly run her thickened fingers over the wax paper that's carefully tucked over and under moist slices of cake, kept like treasure. two, that he'll be sitting near the window, hand tucked just above the slight curve of his belly, with eyes that are impeccably bright for ninety-five years of age. he'll ask time and time again if you survived the night, if you survived the cold, the mosquitos, the rain. he'll pepper his swedish with a finnish twist, though you can't understand either, you'll respond with blushes, smiles, the occasional danish, and he'll chuckle heartily at you in the same way he does with news of visitors, the feminist party on tv, and an ipad. ninety-five and the world's a bemusing thing. three, the old metal percolator's on the counter, hot to the touch and ever-filled with bitter black kaffe. it fills little white cups and you find your tongue flowing with words, spirits perked. if you drink it like an american, which you do, you'll be repaid for emptying the percolator with black sludge. here they tuck white lumps of sugar behind the teeth, and you do the same, rasping the roof of your mouth as you suck them dry as bone, to crumble.

silvery skin drips from the knife's edge as they prepare pink, salty slices of home-cured lax, or scoop white tubs of frozen purple blueberries from the freezer. cloudberry preserves to top your bread, tart and orange, like fish eggs. prized halvtorn, puckery day-glo orange jam. buttery swirls of cinnamon and yeasted dough crowned with white pearls of sugar. stalks of rhubarb melt into cream. spring potatoes, yellow and soft. eggs with roe paste.

everyone is restless here, for work sweetens the sleep. the mosquitos too, their whining crescendos straining in the air. intermittent slapping and black dot corpses fall to the ground, but are easily replaced by second, third, infinite waves of lazily dancing yet persistent brethren. wherever they land, welts spring from shoulders, toes, knee caps. you can cover yourself in a poison cloud of deet, rub tar on your skin, scream, sweat - you'll still bear the mark of brutal love, kisses swelling on eyebrows, cheeks, shins.

northern sweden, five years later.