Natalie reads at night.
After a wonderful service on Good Friday (or Long Friday, as it's known in Sweden), my aunt and uncle and cousins came over for a midday meal of salmon and boiled potatoes and creamy dill sauce and (one mustn't forget) cake for dessert.
A rare glimpse of William without his hat pulled down over his eyes
April in the north looks nothing like April in the south.
Natalie snapping pictures on our way to the cottage in the woods
But spring is on its way.
Digging a shelf into a mound of snow
Father enjoying the work of his hands
Natalie warming her toes by the fire
Invisible fishing pole
We discovered an ice fishing party down at the lake. They hadn't caught much, only a few, disappointingly small lake bass. It strikes me odd that fish survive the winter underneath that ice, stirring softly, remembering the long lingering warmth of summer and the tiny tailors that cut across the glassy surface. Perhaps they glide silent and motionless through the darkness with gills that ripple in and out, in and out, dreaming in their fishy brains of nights of light and mist.