The cabin, or härbre, we stayed in - this photo was taken just as we were leaving, once we’d finished cleaning up.
On the last Saturday of July, I hug my sister and her husband goodbye after a two-week stay, waving them off as S turns the car out of the driveway and on towards the road to Stockholm. I shut the door, have a cry, and get to work: starting with the washing up, I’m going to clean the entire house.
Cleaning after family visits has become something of a tradition. Not only is it usually necessary – I’ve been on holiday, too, of course, so my normal cleaning schedule has taken a break – it also gives me a focus in which to funnel my feelings. As anyone living abroad and away from loved ones will know, goodbyes don’t get easier. Maybe, I reason, their heaviness will lessen with each dish I add to the draining rack, each dust bunny defeated. So, I clean to accept the difficult reality that this time together is over. I clean to reset and reconnect to my home.
*
While I clean, I listen to Carly Rae Jepsen’s two most recent albums, The Loneliest Time and The Loveliest Time, back to back. For the unacquainted, no Jepsen LP is out for long before it is followed by a companion album of b-sides. The Loveliest Time is released one day after my fourth wedding anniversary and the day before my family leaves, making it easy (if a little unhinged) to pretend it’s a gift just for me. This is my second time listening to it, having snuck downstairs the previous day to play it through at my desk while the morning was still milky and misty, not quite awake. The album strikes a perfect balance between familiarity and growth, safety and experimentation. I feel instantly captivated and connected. I feel at home.
*
It is the hottest July on record. Wildfires tear through Southern Europe and, less prevalent in the news, North Africa. In Sweden, an abnormally dry June has given way to a wet, cold July which dictates the way we spend our time during summer’s brief visitation but leaves us feeling lucky. I note the subtle shift of nature’s timings: are the fledgelings learning to fly a little later than last year? Is the air not that bit busier with larger-than-normal mosquitos and particularly aggressive horseflies? How can the chanterelles and the bilberries have readied themselves quite so soon? My emotional barometer seems stuck, dialled into grief and anxiety as temperatures rise and governments continue to act as if nothing is wrong. Organising the bookshelves in my writing room, and tackling a box of tangled cables, won’t fix the climate crisis but the act of bringing order and control to my own environment – in the face of the increasing disorder of our shared one – makes me feel that bit calmer.
*
While my family are here, we: play a co-op Lord Of The Rings board game and suffer consecutive losses; drink straight rum out of thrifted glasses beside a crackling fire; spend two nights in a 100+ year old cabin, cooking meals on the camping stove surrounded by curious hens; go to see a three-hour-long movie about the creation of the atomic bomb. The house stretches to welcome our new dynamic, adjusting to a temporary rhythm. We change the channel when the news cycles through footage of Rhodes in flames, but the heat maintains a steady presence in my mind. I try to shake hopelessness off with after-dinner walks (despite the gnats that leave my ankles swollen with bites). One evening, I go to close the polytunnel for the day and discover, to my joy, that the first courgette is ready for harvest.
*
I clean the same way I write, sometimes. I forget everything but the task at hand, neglecting even the most basic of bodily needs. I skip lunch and end up feeling faint and silly. I keep at it for a little too long, urging myself to continue. Once the hoovering is done, the guest room packed up and the bathroom cleaned, I decide it’s not time to rest but to declutter the Chaos Drawer. It’s a bright, hot day but a threatening cloud – this summer’s literal and metaphorical trademark – lurks on the outskirts of the unassuming blue sky. I listen to Carly Rae Jepsen fall in and out of love, make questionable decisions, staring head-on at the many faces of loneliness and selfhood. At some point, I am finally done. The house is restored to its original state. Cleaning as a grounding exercise – even where the ground is unstable, ever-shifting.
My short story collection, Tools For Surviving A Storm, is out now.
‘In a transporting, original collection, Nadia Henderson examines the lines between nature and the human world through stories set in landscapes both brutal and beautiful.’
I’m Nadia, a London-born writer living and working in rural Sweden. I write short stories, creative non-fiction and, of course, newsletters. If you like, you can find out more about me and my work on my website. Thank you for reading Home Comforts!
How well I know that sadness of saying goodbye to loved ones, the question of when will be the next time... and at my age, if the will even be a next time. I too throw myself into a cleaning frenzy when they leave, battling dust bunnies is but a temporary consolation though, for me, when order is restored, I just wish they would walk through the door again...
Thank you for sharing your process of recovery Nadia.
This resonates so much. You capture the worry and helplessness we're all feeling so well. Beautiful piece Nadia x