”We putting it here, huh?”
my Brother holds up a white ovenproof dish. It may be the one we used to have falukorvsgratäng in when we were small, it is probably a another. Around us: Black garbage bags, packing boxes, dust. And so, the lack of something. No.
my little brother and me. But we've grown up together; slept skavis, been sickened by bilgodiset, spawned the cheeks rosy in the garden. When we were little, I hit him in the stomach when I felt that he deserved it. When we got older he made me nausea of concern when he exposed himself to foolish risks in order to max out the party.
We were always so different. Then dad became ill, I understood how similar we are.
The white ugnsformen ends up in the Ants-in box. Sopsäckarna is full of paper from the hospital, medicinlistor, dosetten. The phone is filled with old messages on the practical side – meetings to understand the disease, handlingslistor, formal decisions. Rejection. Sms that we must pull together, fight a little bit.
Always stick together.
, the father played ”the Itsy bitsy spider” for my daughter for just a few months ago. I take pottskåpet which always stood in the hall. The mirror shall be my brother. There are few things and many memories. Dad's confident coughing is heard inside. His glimmering eyes flickering past. And the voice, the soft. It says: ”We take care of each other in this family.”
Alexandra Urisman Otto is a reporter at DN. She misses her dad and loves his brother.