Told me who entered, exited, crossed, returned or never was seen again. The kinds of details that make my eyes flood and my sinuses rush in anguish. Make me realize fiercely what we have lost. What is missing. Why we are lonely.
Memory is a kind of script.
And even then, not getting a photo of you, of your arm. And even then, not covering it all. And even then I tired, not making as much effort as I should have, not staying longer. Memory is a kind of danger. The end of the war-Sweden made those words possible for you.