There is an island I know, where the wind blows gently over quiet fields.

A thousand yellow bicycles stand ready for us to ride.

A majestic swan nestles in her seaside bed, covers her cygnets under her wing.  So strong. So beautiful. A Swedish mother for our Swedish mothers’ day. We watch with ice cream sandwiches for you and the kids, a juvenile pear-flavored, colorfully sprinkled ice cream cone for me.

We ride on.

There are thatched houses and memories of history on this quiet island, once Denmark, now Sweden. There is a museum for Tycho Brahe, an astronomer who came here to see the stars, understand the universe.  I want to stop and see, ride and see. In the end, we decide to come back another day. Museums are not for perfect May afternoons.

We find a café, hidden in a garden, surrounded by flowers and potted herbs, a few talkative birds — a cottage with a moss-covered roof. We share coffee and carrot cake and homemade pizza with the world’s best goat cheese, or so, somebody happy says. Rose bushes surround us, and it does not rain, not even a drop. The sun comes out instead and someone suggests we all try to ride the tandem bike. All four of us, together, laughing, coasting, peddling, being scolded in Swedish by the old woman waiting for her bus.

Riding through the fields on a single-lane earth trail, soft grasses pressing against our feet; we pass the little lighthouses, so short they seem out of place.

We are warmed by the sun, quieted by the beauty, forgiving Sweden for the winter.

At the edge of our island, a solemn church, surrounded by her faithful saints, silently watches the harbor below, waiting for pilgrims or people like us, anyone who will stop time and notice eternity. We stop and feel the day.

Mors Dag 2018