OPHIA’S father emptied the grounds from the coffee pot and carried the flowerpots out to the veranda.

“What’s he doing that for?” Grandmother asked, and Sophia said the plants would be better off outdoors while he was gone.

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” Grandmother asked.

“For a whole week,” Sophia said. “And we’re going to stay with some people on one of the inner islands till he gets back.”

“I didn’t know that,” Grandmother said. “No one told me.” She went into the guest room and tried to read. Of course, you moved a potted plant to wherever it would get on best. It would do fine on the veranda for a week. If you were going to be gone longer than that, you had to leave it with someone who could water it. It was a nuisance. Even potted plants got to be a responsibility, like everything else you took care of that couldn’t make decisions for itself.

“Come and eat!” Sophia called from outside the door.

“I’m not hungry,” Grandmother said.

“Don’t you feel good?”

“No,” Grandmother said.

The wind blew and blew. The wind was always blowing on this island, from one direction or another. A sanctuary for someone with work to do, a wild garden for someone growing up, but otherwise just days on top of days, and passing time.

“Are you mad?” Sophia said, but her grandmother didn’t answer. The Övergårds came by with the mail, and Papa found out he didn’t have to go into town after all. “Oh, good,” Sophia said, but Grandmother didn’t say a word. She became very quiet and no longer made bark boats, and when she did the dishes or cleaned fish, she didn’t look as if she enjoyed it. And on nice mornings she no longer sat in the woodyard and combed her hair, slowly, with her face turned toward the sun. She just read, and didn’t even care how the books came out.

“Can you make kites?” Sophia said, but Grandmother said she could not. As the days went by, they became strangers to each other, with a shyness that was almost hostile.

“Is it true you were born in the eighteen-hundreds?” Sophia yelled through the window.

“What of it?” Grandmother answered, very distinctly. “What do you know about the eighteen-hundreds?”

“Nothing, and I’m not interested, either,” Sophia shouted and ran away.

The island was blessed with mild night rain. A lot of lumber drifted by and was salvaged. No one came to visit, and there was no mail. An orchid bloomed. Everything was fine, and yet everything was overshadowed by a great sadness. It was August, and the weather was sometimes stormy and sometimes nice, but for Grandmother, no matter what happened, it was only time on top of time, since everything is vanity and a chasing after the wind. Papa did nothing but work at his desk.

One evening, Sophia wrote a letter and stuck it under the door. It said, “I hate you. With warm personal wishes, Sophia.”

All the words were correctly spelled.

Sophia made a kite. The directions were in a newspaper she found in the attic, but even though she did exactly what it said, the kite did not turn out. The tape wouldn’t stick and the tissue paper tore and the paste got in all the wrong places. When the kite was finished, it refused to fly and kept slamming into the ground as if it wanted to destroy itself, and finally it threw itself in the marsh. Sophia put it outside Grandmother’s door and went away.

What a smart little girl, Grandmother thought. She knows that sooner or later I’ll make her a kite that can fly, but that doesn’t help. That doesn’t matter at all.

One calm day, a little white boat with an outboard motor approached the island. “It’s Verner,” Grandmother said. “He’s back with another bottle of sherry.” For a while she considered being ill, but she changed her mind and went down to meet him.

Verner was looking very dapper, with a linen hat. The boat was obviously from the inner islands, but it made an attempt to be sporty. It had a hogged keel. Verner declined assistance and came toward her with his arms spread wide and called out, “Dear old friend, are you still alive?”

“As you can see,” said Grandmother dryly, allowing herself to be embraced. She thanked him for the bottle, and he said, “You see that I remember. It’s the same sherry I brought in nineteen-ten.”

How silly, she thought. Why could I never bring myself to tell him I hate sherry? And now it’s too late. It really was a shame, seeing that she had now reached the age where a person can safely be truthful about small things.

They took some perch from the live box and ate a little earlier than usual. “Skoal,” said Verner gravely, and turned toward Grandmother. “To the final landscape of our old age, as summer fades. This is a fine moment. Silence settles around us, each of us wanders his own way, and yet we all meet by the sea in the peaceful sunset.”

They took tiny sips of their sherry.

“I suppose,” Grandmother said. “But they did promise a breeze for tonight. How much horse-power does your motor have?”

“Three,” Sophia guessed.

“Four and a half,” said Verner curtly. He took a piece of cheese and looked out the window.

Grandmother could see that his feelings were hurt. She tried to be as nice as she could through coffee, and then she suggested the two of them go for a walk. They took the path to the potato patch, and she remembered to lean on his arm every time the ground was uneven. It was very warm and still.

“How are your legs?” Verner asked.

“Bad,” said Grandmother heartily. “But sometimes they seem to work all right.” And she asked him what he was doing these days.

“Oh, a little of everything.” He was still offended. Suddenly he burst out, “And now Backmansson is gone.”

“Where did he go?”

“He is no longer among us,” Verner explained angrily.

“Oh, you mean he’s dead,” said Grandmother. She started thinking about all the euphemisms for death, all the anxious taboos that had always fascinated her. It was too bad you could never have an intelligent discussion on the subject. People were either too young or too old, or else they didn’t have time.

Now he was talking about someone else who was gone, and about the clerk at the store, who was so unfriendly. They were building such ugly houses everywhere, and people went ashore on other people’s land without so much as a by-your-leave, but of course there had to be progress.

“Oh, stuff and nonsense,” Grandmother said. She stopped and turned to face him. “Just because more and more people do the same dumb things, that’s nothing to make such a fuss about. Progress is another thing entirely, you know that. Changes. Big changes.”

“My dear,” said Verner quickly, “I know what you’re going to say. Forgive me for interrupting, but you’re about to ask me if I never read the papers.”

“Not at all!” Grandmother exclaimed, very much hurt. “All I’m asking you is, don’t you ever get curious? Or upset? Or simply terrified?”

“No, I really don’t,” Verner replied frankly. “Though I guess I’ve had my share of upset.” His eyes were troubled. “You’re so hard to please. Why do you use such harsh words? I was only telling you the news.”

They walked by the potato patch and came down to the meadow by the shore. “That’s a real poplar,” said Grandmother, to change the subject. “It’s taking root, look there. A friend of ours brought some genuine swan droppings from Lapland, and it liked them.”

“Taking root,” Verner repeated. He was silent for a moment and then went on. “It must be a great comfort to you to live with your granddaughter.”

“Stop that,” Grandmother said. “Stop talking in symbols, it’s old-fashioned. I talk about taking root and right away you’re into grandchildren. Why do you use so many euphemisms and metaphors? Are you afraid?”

“My dear old friend,” said Verner, greatly distressed.

“I’m sorry,” Grandmother said. “It’s really a kind of politeness; I’m trying to show you I take you seriously.”

“It is clearly an effort,” said Verner gently. “You should be a little more careful with your compliments.”

“You’re right,” Grandmother said.

They walked on toward the point in peaceful silence. Finally, Verner said, “Years ago you never talked about horsepower and fertilizer.”

“I didn’t realize they were interesting. Common-place things can be fascinating.”

“But yourself, personal things—you don’t talk about that,” Verner observed.

“Maybe not about the things that matter most,” Grandmother said. She stopped to think. “In any case, less than I used to. I suppose I’ve already said most of it by this time. And I realized that it wasn’t worth it. Or that I didn’t have the right to say it.”

Verner was silent.

“Do you have any matches?” she asked. He lit her cigarette, and they turned back toward the house. There was still no wind.

“It isn’t my boat,” he said.

“I didn’t think it was. It has a hogged keel, too. Did you borrow it?”

“I just took it,” Verner said. “I took it and drove off. It’s very unpleasant to have them worry about you all the time.”

“But you’re only seventy-five,” said Grandmother in astonishment. “Surely you can do what you like.”

“It’s not that easy,” Verner replied. “You have to be considerate. They do have a certain responsibility for you, after all. And when you get right down to it, you are mostly just in the way.”

Grandmother stopped and poked at a piece of moss with her walking stick. She got it back in place and walked on.

“Sometimes I get very depressed,” Verner said. “You said a person shouldn’t talk about the things that matter most, and here I am doing it anyway. I always seem to say the wrong thing today.”

The sea was yellow in the evening light, and perfectly calm.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he said.

“Please do, Verner,” she said.

Verner lit a little cigar. “They talk about hobbies all the time,” he said. “You know—a hobby.”

“Yes,” Grandmother said. “You’re supposed to want one.”

“Collecting things!” Verner went on. “It’s so stupid. I would like to make things. With my hands, you know. But I’m not very good at that sort of thing.”

“But you could make things grow!”

“Exactly!” Verner exclaimed. “You’re just the same, just exactly. ‘Why don’t you have a garden?’ they’re always saying. ‘Watch things grow!’ I might have thought of that for myself, if only they hadn’t said anything.”

“Yes, you’re quite right about that,” Grandmother said. “It’s true. You have to come to it by yourself.”

They fetched his basket and his sweater, and everyone said goodbye. Grandmother proposed a glass of sherry, but Verner explained that sherry was a drink he had never really liked but only valued in conjunction with the memories they shared, which were very dear to him.

“They are dear to me, too,” said Grandmother honestly. “Now set a course straight past the Horse Rocks, it’s deep the whole way. And try to think of some way to outwit them.”

“I will,” Verner said. “I promise you.” He started the motor and headed straight for home.

“Who’s he going to outwit?” Sophia asked.

“Relatives,” Grandmother said. “Nasty relatives. They tell him what to do without asking him what he wants, and so there’s nothing at all he really does want.”

“How awful!” Sophia cried. “That would never happen with us!”

“No, never!” Grandmother said.