I could vividly see old Bo, trying to look after his beloved dog and putting up with the care he desperately needs. I felt his pain of past mistakes, knowing his son wants the best for him but angry at him for acting accordingly; imagined him lying on his daybed, daydreaming and missing the loving care of his absent wife. The struggle between head and heart is so real. Even though it’s predictable, the tenderness and depth of feeling made me cry.
Ingrid tried to find a jar that would be easier to open but still secure enough to stop your scent from disappearing, but I couldn’t manage that either.
‘Do you need any help with the jar?’ she asks with her back to me.
I quickly lower my eyes. She has helped me with it so many times, but it’s still embarrassing. Keeping your dementia-addled wife’s scarf in a jar just to be able to remember her scent is fundamentally pathetic, after all. That’s why Ingrid is the only one who knows about it. I’d be embarrassed even in front of you. We weren’t the kind of people to whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ear, We never needed that sort of thing.
Ingrid opens the lid and hands the jar to me, then continues to wipe the worktop.
I inhale deeply through the fabric. Close my eyes and let my eyelids trap the burning sensation. No one ever told me that it’s normal for a person’s eyes to well up so easily as they age, for the tears to find a foothold in virtually every memory.
