A long time ago, during our many summers on Grundvik Island, I would wake up early every Thursday and run down to wait for Jonas Ström and the mail.

I’d listen for his hoot in the pale light of morning, with the cool promise of a warm summer day climbing a horizon that surrounded me.

He approached, just a blue and red dot from where I stood, barefooted, worrying that Helena or Toma would find me and tease.

Then with a mighty honk he would pull up to the pier. Loud like Thor, tall and bright with a wide grin, he’d cast me in his shadow as he leaned down to hand me the newspapers and letters. He would say “Flicka lilla“, little girl, “du vaknar med fåglarna“, you rise with the birds, then, just as I’d prepare to open my mouth and say something, Helena…