Postkort fra 2042: The Trees I Won't See Tall
Maja,
Thirty-one degrees again. I signed the shade corridor for Nørrebrogade on Tuesday — four hundred and twelve trees, phased over eleven years. The modelling says the canopy closes properly around 2061. I did the arithmetic in the margin like an idiot. I'll be sixty-three when it starts working and long gone when it works well.
So I've been eating my lunch in Assistens instead, under somebody else's foresight. Whoever planted these had the decency not to think about it.
Ida wrote to me. She's asked to switch off the co-parenting digest — the thing that sends me her sleep hours and her attendance and a little sentiment score every Sunday, very tidy, colour-coded. She said she'd rather I just rang her and asked how she was. Fair. I've had six years of knowing about her and calling it knowing her.
I rang. Twenty-two minutes. She's fine, mostly. She hates her physics teacher with real commitment, which I found reassuring.
Tell her the trees are coming, even if slowly. Tell her I said it out loud.
Kiss her from me. Say it's from the boring one.
A.
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