Vindö, Revisited

My grandfather turns 90. He is old, he takes innumerable naps, we have to speak twice as loud and half as fast, but damn if he doesn't love that akvavit after lunch. We crowd into my aunt's house in the country, first cousins once removed, second cousins, great-aunts and in-laws, an invasion of flies and unlimited cookies. By nightfall, the secret smokers sneak onto the back porch. I hear untold stories of my father's youth, where we would stand on the balcony and spit on the passers-by, and jump on the slide so the crystal chandeliers rattled on the neighbor's ceiling. Detect similarities in our faces, trace lineage through a curvature of the hip, a crinkle in the eye. My parents call from across the oceans and lament their absence, but they spent most of my youth avoiding these things. When the devil grows old, he finds religion. My cousin in New York Skypes in and everyone crowds around the screen to make jokes and express longing. There was a low marking on the doorpost, 1987; how we have grown since then, and still we are the same. She feels closer now than ever.

We repack our bags, escape to the archipelago. I lie for two full days on a cliff and watch my skin turn brown. Live in a swimsuit and try not to get webbed feet. Write lists and count down days. What am I doing with my life and should I be doing it differently. I read small press anthologies and see nothing but dystopic futures painted on science fiction-esque backdrops. To be a good writer you must be an avid reader. I fall asleep with the pages plastered to my cheek. Sunscreen glue.

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

I am not afraid.