The first months after my husband’s passing, I didn’t have much strength.Friends invited me to dinners, conversations, and warmth, and I could feel surrounded by love—but after an hour I wanted to go home again. To the solitude. To my bodyguard. Every day I looked at photographs of him. Perhaps it is about strength running out. Perhaps it is about something else—a need to be swallowed by memories, to not be interrupted in grief. I had a conversation with Håkan Ludwigson, a

"Diving'" by Fredrik Brodén This year has taken away people I have loved. Friends I thought would be with me longer. The longing for them is not dramatic. It ´s everyday. It comes up when I’m about to make a call. It arises when I hear a laugh that sounds familiar, when I think “I must tell them this” and realize I can’t. Or when someone rings the doorbell and I briefly think “It’s probably him.” But it’s not. I have seen friends struggle. Family struggle. Friends afflicted

Can you almost fall in love? I don’t think so. You either do, or you don’t. Love with the Bodyguard struck like lightning but grew slowly, winding. Food and art once brought people together; now I write to give shape to grief, to beauty. Birds remind me of that balance — physics and miracle, mystery and freedom. They move between worlds, guided by stars. You see, one is in love with them. Not almost.

I am fascinated by hands. In fact, I probably always have been, but since I tend to be late with most things, it’s only now that I truly...