Dad and the white wagtail

Since the 1950s, my parents had a cottage in a village with a few farms in the deepest part of Bergslagen. Throughout my childhood, every weekend and every holiday was spent in the country. There was electricity, but we had to fetch water from the well, and any business had to be conducted in the simple outdoor toilet.

My childhood was idyllic – smiling surroundings with a small lake that framed the old cultural landscape, which was now slowly starting to grow again. On the other side of the gravel road lived the older couple who still had a farm with animals. Hay was made, the flower meadows were mowed with a scythe, and I got to help milk the cows when I was four years old.

My father’s name was Erland, and when the first sädesärla (white wagtail) arrived in the spring and tripped around in front of the woodshed, dad always said ”hej ärlan”. He loved all animals, but the white wagtail was especially dear to his heart. Whether it was because his name was similar to the little bird’s, I don’t know – but the very special relationship was obvious.

When Dad had left us and was to be buried on a warm spring day in May, the impending walk with the coffin from the funeral chapel to the grave felt almost endless – it was the first great loss for me as an adult. Shortly after we left the chapel, my sister discreetly nudged my arm, nodding at the coffin being carried in front of us. There, next to the coffin, a white wagtail had chosen to join the little funeral procession. It flicked its tail and tripped as usual, and not until there were a few meters left to the grave did it let out a chirp and went on its merry way.

Over time, some memories seem to slowly fade away and disappear into the labyrinths of the brain – it is an inevitable fact. At the same time, other moments can remain on the retina with the same clarity and burning intensity as the moment when you experienced them. This is one of them.