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  • As a kid, I would anxiously watch the fireweed all summer.

    My life was normally troublesome, but not during summertime. I always spent summer in my grandparents summerhouse in Kaggebo, Småland, Sweden. That place was my only solid place, the only house that didn’t change every other year. The woods, the beaches, the heather, the fir needles, and my best friend. It was all mine.

    I dreaded the end of summer, more than anything. In the middle of july the fireweed would be at their peak, creating fields of lilac. Gradually, the flowers would fall off, starting from the bottom, leaving bare stalks. Then the residue would get all woolly, and the little stalks would break up like springs and fall apart. When only a few flowers at the top remained, summer was over.

    Just like now.
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