Harbor light and a borrowed song

A gull tapped the Söder lighthouse window this morning while I coaxed a stubborn sentence from Chimamanda into Swedish. Candle smoke and black tea kept company with an old Fela record—suddenly the line let go and became a harbor, all wind and memory.

Wrote a short love-note to the man in his forties about tides and trade-wind confessions; a woman my age left a poem in Swedish on the sill that smelled faintly of bergamot. Living between languages teaches the same thing the harbor teaches me: intimacy prefers small, honest exchanges to anything performed for show.