My Swedish brother is killing me softly with his song. It´s not the first time. He´s my husband´s best friend. He wasn´t always my Swedish brother. It´s just much easier that way now.
My Swedish brother always had a lousy voice. We used to lock him in the loo we shared with the neighbours back in early 70s Vienna. It was the same loo we had to clean when he came back from sea with a broken neck all trussed up like a knight in armour, unable to pee straight and nowhere to go.
My Swedish brother went to Sweden and became a photographer. He kept killing softly with his song, had a daughter and married.
My Swedish brother spilt tomato sauce on his nice pants and wanted to delay our Las Vegas wedding. We married in shorts. He gave us our wedding song. We never needed photos. The pix are engraved in our minds.
My Swedish brother gave our daughter her own song, too. He calls her Ma-dee-moys-ally because she grew up French. She calls him Mickey Mouse.
My Swedish brother divorced yet kept all his family. A first and a last. You never lose love, he says. He lost his job and came back to the 70s with two guitars. Susanne doesn´t take him down anymore, but we feed him tea and oranges. He has a sign on his door in our house: Privileged Pensioner.
My Swedish brother still has a lousy voice, but we´re used to it now. He strums at the table, singing our songs.
A slightly different version first saw the light of day at Red Room.