My father was my hero and the light of my life. He was tall and handsome but a fragile spirit, and he died at 41. His mother was, or still is, Swedish, from a little place called Trollhattan, spelled with one of those dotted a:s. I always thought of it as a very warm place full of trolls and goblins. Troll-heat. My father laughed and humoured me. He promised me he'd take me there some day, but he never did.
Maybe going there now, you'll feel him in spirit..
ReplyDeleteÄr du i sverige nu?
ReplyDeleteI too feel a pilgrimage should be undertaken.
ReplyDeleteTrollhättan.
[Hold down the "alt/option" key and press the "u" key, then the letter you want the diacritic above.]
I suggest you visit that place, and stay strong
ReplyDeleteGo... take the camera (and one of those irritating Euro power cord adapter thingies too)... and make some memories you haven't yet had.
ReplyDeleteNothing tastes more like revolution than that.
I am very very sorry about your father. You will see him again someday. Just keep him in your heart for now. :)
ReplyDeleteHave a very Merry Christams. ♥
xx,
~Abby~
Indulge yourself. Go visit. Have a magical Christmas darling. xo
ReplyDelete