A day in Gothenburg can hold more than you expect – brief encounters, music that carries you, and things that linger long after the day itself is over
Read this post in Swedish →En dag i Göteborg – barnbarn, skivor och det som bär
We visited the grandchildren first.
I brought gifts for the little girl that I had forgotten to give her at Christmas.
And a pair of mittens I had knitted for the little boy.
He immediately wanted me to see his room.
He showed me Lego he had built, blew up a balloon, and had so much he wanted to share.
Everything moved fast, the way it does when a child wants to pull an adult into their world before time runs out.
It feels sad that things are the way they are.
But those short meetings still matter.
They show that my grandchildren want me in their lives.
The little girl had cut her hair.
She received small clips for her hair and a kit with beads and materials to make necklaces.
She started creating bracelets right away.
So naturally. So focused.
That quiet kind of creativity that says more than words ever could.
I care so deeply for those two little ones that it hurts a little now, knowing I don’t have more things to bring over.
As if the gifts themselves had been a bridge.
A reason.
A way to meet.
Soon the little one will have his birthday.
Then there will be a new opportunity.
As far as I’m concerned, they could have birthdays every month—just so I’d have a chance to see them.
But this is how it is.
Even though I wish we could spend more time together, it’s not something I can influence.
A day in Gothenburg sometimes becomes a distillation of life, where both joy and longing are allowed to exist.
Vinyl – a day in Gothenburg
After that, we continued on to Gothenburg and Bengans.
We bought six—maybe seven—records.
Some hard rock, of course.
A rarity by Sweet.
A Mike Oldfield.
Ratatat.
Tina Turner.
An Ozzy.
And one more that hasn’t quite introduced itself yet—it can wait until the needle lands.
There is something comforting about flipping through vinyl.
Choosing music that has already carried you through life and still does.
As if certain voices and riffs know things about you, without you having to explain.
We carried the records home.
And I carried the children’s voices with me.
AHA – between the lines
This day isn’t really about records.
And it isn’t about gifts either.
It’s about the small in-between spaces.
About how love sometimes has to live in brief visits, in packages handed over, in minutes that cannot be extended.
It’s easy to believe that closeness is measured in time.
But sometimes it lives in intention.
In showing up.
In seeing.
In staying present, even when the space is limited.
And perhaps that’s why days like this mean more than we first realize.
Reflection 💜
Sometimes I wish there were more space.
More time.
More everyday life.
But I’ve learned to take care of what actually exists.
The short meetings.
The children’s glances.
The music that comes home with me.
It’s not everything I want.
But it’s not nothing.
And right now, it’s enough for me to know that they know who I am.
Music has followed me for a long time.
For those who want to read more, here are two earlier texts where Ozzy has taken his place—
in different ways, at different times, yet in the same year and the same era, just on different days.
Ozzy is dead – and I don’t quite know where to place the grief
Ozzy, Ozzy, Ozzy – a tribute while he is still here
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“It’s not time that determines how close we are—but that we show up when we’re allowed to.
Sometimes love has to live in brief meetings and still be whole.
Like a vinyl record that ends, where you turn it to the other side—
or put on another record.”
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