Shelley Johansson
We decorate the midsummer pole with intention, the coastline of Denmark shimmering across the sound. Wrapped with greens and twirled with wire, the pole lies on the ground as the entire neighborhood pokes piles of flowers into the leaves. The cross-shaped pole, an ancient symbol of fertility, is soon adorned with red, blue, white, pink flowers, endless flowers. The women decorate the rings that will be hung at the ends of the cross with evenly spaced red blooms, because they must be perfect. Finally the men raise the pole with ropes and we gasp in delight.
***
A silent blob bounced around on the screen like a primitive video game. I had just one child but I’d been here too many times before, that was not what it was supposed to look like and I knew it. The technician wouldn’t meet my eye as she left, saying she’d bring the doctor to talk. I was alone in the dim ultrasound room and the metallic taste that had been in my mouth for weeks intensified.
***
We walk home from the beach for midsummer lunch, the village alive with laughter, Swedish flags waving. We sit in my sister-in-law’s yard, feasting on herring, potatoes with dill, sweet red strawberries, cider. Skål, we exclaim, sharing an aquavit toast in the dappled sunshine. I slip inside and pick up my phone. Supreme Court news: Roe is dead. My body responds with a familiar metallic taste in my mouth. I return to the table and reach for another strawberry to mask it.
***
The procedure couldn’t be scheduled until after Thanksgiving. A friend was visiting from Sweden and we prepared the turkey dinner. We circled around the table and I lifted my toddler daughter into her booster seat. Everyone smiled as I lighted the candles but I saw the worry in my husband’s eyes. I was still nauseated and everything tasted metallic, especially the wine. At least I can have wine, I brooded to myself, staring into the ruby red glass.
***
The joyful throng circles the pagan pole, which is dripping with petals, rings moving gently in the sea breeze high above our heads. A musician leads us in traditional songs as we dance around it. We hold hands, smiles brilliant as the late afternoon sun. My daughter, a beautiful young woman now, dances beside me in a summery dress that flatters her figure. She laughs as she reaches for the Swedish words, tossing her long blonde hair. She doesn’t know yet and I squeeze her hand, trying to focus on the moment.
***
I had changed into the gown. The nurse asked if I wanted twilight or regular anesthesia, but I was too terrified to choose. Our friend babysat while my husband waited in the lobby. Finally it was over and we drove home. I woke up from a nap and threw up after I saw the bright red blood. Days later the doctor called to tell me about the chromosomes.
***
The Supreme Court did it, mama, my daughter whispers, eyes full of tears. I know, I respond as we walk through the village toward the boat, the sounds of midsummer parties floating across the twilight. I want to reassure her, but she is 18 and I am afraid. The next day we swim in the cold sound and I savor the taste of the briny water. The red flowers on the midsummer pole are already wilting and tomorrow we fly home.
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Shelley Johansson is a native of Nashville who lives, writes and sews in western Pennsylvania. Her flash nonfiction has appeared in Rejection Letters, Schuykill Valley Journal Online, and Transformations, and her essay “Sewing Lessons” for Salvation South was an “editor’s pick” for Longreads. Find her on Twitter at @shelleyjohansso.