Postkort fra 2039: Someone Should Hold the Hand
Kære Trine,
Fru Lindqvist died on Tuesday. Ninety-one. I was there. Not the robot — me.
They gave us the new lifting units in spring. Quiet things, gentle, and I won't pretend my back doesn't thank them. But the unit just stands in the corner when it isn't needed, and last week fru Lindqvist asked me to move it so it wasn't "watching." So I did. We sat. She held my hand with both of hers, the way the old ones do, like they're checking you're real.
The machine can lift her. It cannot want to. That is the whole job, Trine.
The elder-flower is out along Backersvej and the flat smelled of it through her window. I opened it wide. She liked the noise of the harbour ferries.
I am tired in the good way tonight. My feet are done. But I keep thinking: someone should hold the hand. As long as it's me doing that, the rest can hum in the corner.
Kiss the Bornholm wind for me. Ring Sunday.
Mor
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