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In northern Sweden there is a small village with three houses. I grew up in one of the them. I never went to kindergarten so mom took care of me instead. Dad was a farmer and worked in the woods. It was quiet most of the time. There was a horse in the yard and a pig who thought he was a horse. My friends were fictionary, living with me in the woods. I spent a lot of time going through old photo albums. My grandparents, parents and siblings were all there and I made up my own stories about them.
I’ve gone back in time, to my childhood home where time seems to have stopped. Often it feels like living in a museum.
But things have changed. The trees have grown, my grandma just died, my sisters daughter just fell in love and the neighbors are still the same. There is proof that time passes.The wheels of time just turn more slowly.
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