It’s funny how your memory works.
Skansen, the world’s first open air museum. A Beamish in Stockholm’s Djurgården. Fifteen years ago and the girls are sitting on the Dahl horse just inside the entrance posing for a souvenir photo. The red lacquer and their red cheeks. The queues at the café, the bears in the zoo and the marathon runners making their way like ants around the park. The warmth of the spring northern sun.
The lovely wooden houses with their turf roofs and settled beams. The quiddity of Scandinavia. The rustic furniture and the stumps of spent candles. The beds with their faded linen and beautiful embroidered quilts, white with delicate blue and red flowers.
The depressions in the bed. Shallow histories of the souls that have slept there, their loves, their anguishes and their joys.
And I realise that one day I will be nothing more than a depression in the bed.
Thoughts from a Guerrilla Worker 