Last Monday my dad died. At least to me he did. The actual time of his death was, as I got it, the Monday before; on the 8:th of June 2009. He was, as I now have checked, 61 years old. He died of pancreatic cancer. His name was Mats Jonsson.

The fact that I am writing this here and the facts that I have written should explain most things to you. Still, I am going to ponder this for a bit more.

I have three memories of my father, or, and this is written without any form of animosity; ill will, the man with the ascribed title: my father.

It’s cold outside. I know this because I remember wearing a warm overall. I do not remember the cold itself. I am around three years old. My father is, for some reason, taking me to kinder garden, so it must be morning. He leans in over me and pulls up the zipper on my overalls all the way up. I guess he does it because he does not want me to get cold, or for me to be as warm as possible. As he pulls the zipper upwards the skin on my cheek, ur just under it; perhaps on my neck, gets caught in it and a sharp pain shots from that point.
I have no real clear image of this encounter, nor of the situation as a whole. I just know it all happened, because of the pain.

It’s the day before my 10:th birthday. For some reason I am to go to my grand mother and grand father’s, on my fathers side, place to celebrate my birthday, a day ahead, there.  I remember my grandfather, Anders, taking a nap, I think. I remember coming home from the event, my father driving me, with someone else in the car. I remember getting a skateboard.
I never celebraited anything with him, or that side of the family again, nor did I, as I can remember, prior.

The year is 2002 or 2003. I am waiting for a tram with my friend Thomas Brandt. My cell phone rings. It’s my mother. She says that she has someone who wants to talk to me by here side. My first thought was: Ok, my brother is at here place, I wonder what he wants, so urgent. Then a voice says (in Swedish): Hi Tomas. It’s dad. I immediately said I had to hang up. Then I took the first tram over to my mothers apartment.
I do not know what I was thinking of on that tram ride but I’m sure my head was all over the place.
When I arrived we sat down and talked for about two hours. In all that time the man did not ask a single question about me, nor was I especially eager to tell him anything. After he left I rather quickly decided that if he wanted to have any part of my life it would have to be on his initiative. What that place would be had me puzzled for a while.
A week later or soo, he called. Saying that now that contact was established we shouldn’t ever loose it again. I told him that he had my number and that he could call anytime he wanted.
He never called again.

So, last Monday, his girlfriend, or whatever, called me with the news. It’s been a week with a lot of thinking. Not so much about his death but about other stuff. Should I attend the funeral? Should I accept the inheritance? And so forth.

I’m sorry I did not know Mats. I’m sorry he died.
Other than that, I can never be finished with this since it was something that never got started. It’s non-dramatic, it’s non-existing.
I’m ok.
I am ok.