Page 74 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

Svedala

The first customer of the day is looking for a bouquet for her aunt who’s unwell.

‘May I suggest some carnations? They don’t just stand for love, captivation and distinction which one might think but also

for medicinal purposes, such as for upset stomach and fever.’

‘How lovely. These are very pretty, aren’t they?’ She looks at the flowers in the buckets I’ve shown her.

‘Any colour preference?’ I ask her. ‘Although I’d stay clear of red. It was US President McKinley’s lucky charm and he always

wore one on his lapel.’ The customer looks at me expectantly. I stop for breath and then add, ‘He was, however, assassinated.’

‘Oh. Should we go for a white mix, then?’

‘Wonderful.’ I start to work on them. All my focus spreads through my hands as I cut, bind and make something beautiful.

Sometimes when I go to sleep at night I don’t close my eyes, I keep them open for a while.

And I go through all my favourite parts of Blade like a map.

When I start to tire, I close my eyes and continue.

Here’s why it sends me to sleep so well: it’s endless.

I never run out of places and at some point I always drift off with the warm fuzzy feeling inside me I’ve come to recognise as my new normal.

When normal is like this, I don’t need extraordinary. Who does?

I meet everyone at the old quarry after work. I’m carrying the biggest bouquet of flowers, and Cornflakes is on a lead next

to me, lunging forward when he sees his human daddy. I let go, ignoring training techniques for today, and let him run towards

Blade.

‘This is the epic closure every love story should have,’ Lina says.

It was Edith’s idea, and she wouldn’t let it go. ‘The letters will come back and haunt me again,’ she said. The more we thought

about it, we could see that she had a point. The new Swedish neurologist agreed there’s something to be said for closure,

for the calmness it brings to a brain in uproar. ‘It’s not a bad idea making a ceremony of it. Perhaps even take some pictures,’

she told us.

So here we are. I’m cradling Edith’s and Sven’s letters turned to ashes in my best porcelain vase. The ones they both wrote

but never sent—now mixed together.

‘So is this a common Swedish tradition?’ Americano aka Tim asks. We all burst out laughing because, of course, we all probably

seem barking mad to an outsider. Spreading letter ashes as if they’re human remains. He should know that by now, seeing how

much time we spend together. Even if I’d tried, I couldn’t have pictured a better scenario than the one in which my best friend’s

boyfriend becomes my boyfriend’s best friend.

I give Edith a hug and feel my chest expand from the joy of being together, the joy of being slightly unhinged, of there being

no secret, of sharing grief with someone who understands.

I have kept one letter, with her permission. The words aren’t for me, but they soothe me still, give me a sense of belonging I never had. I’m not the only one in my family. If I didn’t know before, then the letter proves it.

I have a niece, Edith. She’s not like my nephews. She needs me. I understand a little bit more of what was behind your decision

now. What I mean is that I’ll never be happy about your choice, but I understood your decision once Sophia was born. She’s

not my child, but she needs me, without me there’d be no one in her world like her. She has my brain, and I need to make sure

she grows up knowing people will love her for it, even if it won’t always feel like it.

I hope you moved on. That you have a good life.

Blade shakes the vase, and the fragmented ashes fly out, separating as soon as the wind touches them, flying off in a million

directions within seconds, never to be reunited.

I reach for Blade’s hand.