Last night I dreamt of a man who had my build and features but lived on the rugged coast of Sweden. He enjoyed nothing better than taking long walks on the shore, in a battered army jacket. A tin of Dutch cigars, a pocket knife, and book of poetry nestled in its ample pockets. He walked with a hand carved wooden staff, even though he didn’t really need it. A dog followed close by, everywhere he went.
Like me the man was a photographer and a member of a small artist collective.
Unlike me, he was a life-long bachelor, although it was rumored he had fathered children to different women in several Scandinavian cities.
The town folk called him Melmud.
Today, when I woke up, I tried to say good morning to my family in Swedish. Strangely enough, all I could manage was to say it in English ~