Postkort fra 2040: The Window at Four Forty
Sofie,
04:40 again. Asta is feeding, Villads is awake and has decided the ceiling is interesting.
I have the window open because August won't cool down anymore. Down on the water the quality buoy blinks green every eleven seconds, and I have started waiting for it. That is the state of me: I wait for a buoy.
Three weeks left of leave. I keep making lists of things I meant to do with this year and the lists have stopped being plans. They're just an inventory of a person I thought I would have time to be.
The sleep-mat under Villads logs everything — every stir, every settle. Yesterday it told me his nights have improved 22 percent. I sat with that number for a long while. It knows the data of my son. It does not know that he grips my thumb when he's nearly gone, and lets go the second he's asleep. Nobody is measuring that. When I go back to work, nobody will have measured this whole year.
The harbour is completely flat. Not a single boat.
Go to sleep, Sofie. One of us should.
E (begge sover, mirakel)
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