Leaning back against the Poäng with her eyes half closed, her thin hands clasped a mug of coffee mainly for the warmth it imparted, as the coffee itself was often barely drunk.
Seeing me when she opened her eyes, my mother unexpectedly asked for a pen and a piece of paper. As I hurriedly searched for the writing implements, I tried to remember when I last saw her use a pen, all the while fearing that she would forget her request if I did not act quickly enough.
To my relief, once she had the pen in hand along with a piece of lined paper that I quickly tore from my journal, she propped the blank sheet of paper on a new issue of Vogue magazine and started writing without pause.
She finished writing a few minutes later and looked up. With a gleam in her eyes, she handed me the piece of paper, now scrawled with several lines of verses in French, in a handwriting I recognized.
The verses were those she has known since childhood:
A day when I would be old
and you would be old.
Your blond hair will become whitened
Elsa, Elsa...
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