#britta larson

In Sweden, their old country, she mused momentarily on how a place so permanent in her life could feel so very far away, she had rocked and sewed by firelight when Kirsten was just a little girl.  Using snips of fabric purchased at the market for a dress and shawl for herself, she fashioned a little dress and miniature shawl for the rag doll Kirsten would christen Sari.  She never made the dress or shawl for herself and thought perhaps it was time to do so, but for Kirsten.

When Britta woke her in the night with her tiny baby cries, Mama would feed the little one until she fell into mjölk drunk sleep.  She spent the night hours after by the firelight, cutting and stitching the fabric from home.  Home was not quite the right word and she struggled these days to think in Swedish sometimes.  Hem, she said to herself in a whisper, the Swedish word for home, hem.

Carefully, she added the grow stripe into the dress.  Kirsten had seen so much, two countries, the family of one and the native people of the other, a great ocean by ship and a great storm from a cave.  However, she was still a girl and one that seemed to grow by the moment.  Mama knew she would be so pleased to have a dress and shawl just like her doll, one she could wear for a while.

When the dress and shawl were done, she used the tissue from the trunk to wrap each piece.  There was plenty of fabric left over and one day perhaps Britta would have a dress to match.  Mama mused that perhaps Britta would play with Sari, but stopped herself.  No, Sari was Kirsten’s forever and always, förevigt och alltid.