When the Cranes Fly South

“The figure in front of me looks more like an oil painting than anything, all crude brushstrokes, but my beard and long hair do stand out.”

Staring in the mirror has become a strange act for Bo. In the years since his memory has begun to fade and his body has begun to weaken, each glance into the mirror has become a demonstration of how much he has changed. He feels like he is no longer looking at himself but at a simulacrum of himself that does not match his self-identity. This only adds to the tension in his life.

“Someone had told me he was local, but he sounded like he came from down south.”

When Bo first met Ture, the man’s accent stood out. Since Bo is from a provincial part of the country, the sound of an unfamiliar accent has the power to rankle and estrange. In the case of Ture, however, Bo found a new friend. Ture came to him from an external place, providing Bo with a glimpse of life beyond the confines of his community and differentiating him from his provincial father in some small degree.

“The last of the snow only melted a few days ago, and it strikes me that it might have been the last snow I ever see.”

The once-familiar pattern of the seasons has changed in meaning as Bo has grown older. Whereas the melting of the snow once meant the arrival of spring, it now carries a more ominous meaning. Bo senses that his participation in the cycle of nature is at an end; this may be the last time he sees the snow melt, so he feels the need to relish it more even though he lacks the sensory and physical capacity to do so.

“The young un’s probably trying out his wings.”

For Bo, the cranes are one of the signifiers of the natural cycle of life. Whereas plants and seasons cycle through familiar patterns, creatures such as cranes grow up before his eyes. They learn to fly and leave the nest, providing him with a metaphor for parental relationships right outside his door. As he withdraws into his feelings, this metaphor becomes even more important for him.

“I honestly don’t know why you insist on sleeping on that uncomfortable old thing.”

Hans cannot comprehend his father’s reluctance to sleep in the bed that Bo once shared with Fredrika. At the same time, Bo cannot bring himself to explain the pain of sleeping in the bed he once slept in with his wife. The result is that they both simmer with resentment toward one another, frequently unable to explain their true feelings and thus causing more friction. They are caught in a cycle of passive aggressiveness.

“We looked at each other differently during that time, as though we knew something no one else knew. As though we shared something no one else had access to.”

When Bo looks back fondly on his relationship with his son, one of his fondest feelings is the sense of ease with which they understood each other. That the ease of their communication becomes a focus of his nostalgia demonstrates how much of a problem communication has become in the present. Bo does not long for a particular time or place but a kind of relationship that seems to have slipped away from both of them.

“But Hans has never had a problem yelling all sorts of things at his father.”

Bo’s resentment toward both his father and Hans reveals the dissonance in his own thoughts. He resents his father because he was forced to be quiet, yet he resents Hans for not feeling the same way. In effect, he envies Hans because Hans is able to say to Bo what Bo wishes he had said to his own father. Bo wishes that he could have yelled “all sorts of things” at his father (76), so Hans’s behavior is an indictment of Bo on a level that Hans never even understands.

“It all happens so quickly that I don’t have time to think.”

Bo remembers the accident in the sawmill, giving voice to the sense of powerlessness and helplessness as he watched the scene unfold in front of him. The memory particularly stings him because he feels the same way in his interactions with Hans. When they are together, Bo watches these avoidable mistakes slip out of his control, and he wishes that he could change his behavior but knows that he is powerless to do so.

“No, it’s because everything’s old and needs replacing.”

Bo may not have his son’s education, but he recognizes all too well the subtext in Hans’s words. He is irritated by his son’s implication that he—Bo—is just another thing that is “old and needs replacing” (106). Hans’s words sting because Bo has come to fear that they are true. He feels old and, without his wife, wishes he could be replaced.

“Oh, Bo. You say the same thing every time.”

Bo’s nice moment with Johanna is undone by the realization that he may have made this joke before. Bo does not comment on whether this is the case, but the chapter ends with Johanna’s statement. Johanna’s comment is an unexpected reminder of how much of himself is slipping away. His life has become a familiar pattern, but even more so for everyone else, while he is trapped in unknowing.

“The look on his face is so sad. I used to feel the same shakiness I think I can see in him whenever my old man looked at me.”

Bo’s memories show how little he cared for his father and how much of his life he dedicated to trying to be as different as possible. In his old age, however, he is presented with the horrifying reality that he has ended up with very different but equally as serious problems. Bo recognizes in Hans his own frustrations with his father but recognizes in himself his own failures to be the father he wishes that he had.

“I listen to the sound of Ellinor breathing, and feel a sudden urge for her to tell me more about Hans. I want her to explain why he is the way he is, why he’s such hard work.”

The nature of Bo’s narration means that the reader can see into his thoughts and understand that he is desperate to ask these questions and bridge the emotional gap to Hans, yet he’s frustrated that he does not do so. For the other characters, those who do not have insight into his innermost thoughts, these desires are left unsaid, hinting that characters such as Hans may be equally frustrated by their inability to say what they really want.

“Screaming that this sure as hell isn’t how I raised my son to behave.”

Whenever Bo is frustrated with Hans, he is equally as frustrated with himself as a parent. Considering the influence that Bo believes his own father had on his life, he believes that he is responsible for Hans’s actions. He blames Hans but, in doing so, recognizes that he is also blaming himself. The way in which he raised his son is, he recognizes, his own responsibility.

“I called him after you left, and I wish I could say something now that would help him the way he helped me, but I can’t remember what he said. All I remember is how it felt, that the weight on my chest lifted.”

Bo feels his memories fading from him, so he is often left with the emotional echoes of actions that he cannot remember. This is particularly frustrating when, for example, he wishes that he could comfort people as he himself was comforted. He can only remember the result of people’s gestures, rather than the gestures themselves. This makes Bo all the more resentful that his failing memory is preventing him from helping others.

“If you were here, you’d talk him round.”

Since Fredrika has been gone from Bo’s life for a considerable amount of time now, he can comfort himself with the assurance that she would be able to fix his problems. He conjures up a comfortable version of reality in which Fredrika knows exactly what to say to Hans to resolve all their problems. This may not be true, but for Bo it is—at the very least—an emotional comfort.

“Bo still down, but in a slightly better mood than this morning. Tub of gingerbread on the table, doesn’t remember who brought it.”

Bo feels the lingering effects of the children’s visit, but he cannot remember that they brought him the gingerbread. This speaks to the tragedy of Bo’s condition, in which the quiet, positive moments of his life are slowly erased. This memory may not be particularly consequential, but it speaks to the way that Bo must navigate his world with only lingering emotions and no memory of how they were created.

“I yank my arm back and make use of the only weapon I have left: my silence.”

Earlier, the silence in Bo’s life was a reminder of his loneliness. This silence became all the more pronounced when Sixten was taken away. Bo becomes so enraged with his son, however, that he learns to weaponize this silence. He will not improve his mood by staying silent, but he can at least make Hans feel as miserable as himself. Bo is making use of what few tools he has to level the playing field between him and Hans.

“I reach for the jar containing your scarf. I don’t even try to open it, just let it rest by my side where Sixten used to lie.”

The fading scent of Fredrika’s scarf is trapped inside the jar. With his body now so weak, however, Bo cannot open the jar. Fredrika and her scent are separated from him, and this separation is made more acute by his weakness. Instead, he uses this symbol of his absent wife to fill the void left by his dog. Bo no longer tries to open the jar; it has become a symbol of his fading life force.

“I decide to go to the toilet before I try one more time, staggering through the living room to the bathroom as thoughts of what might have happened torture me. All the places he could have fallen.”

Throughout the novel, Bo insists that he is perfectly fine to be left alone. He brushes off Hans’s fears about him walking in the woods. Yet, as soon as there is a chance that Ture might be in trouble, Bo feels exactly the same way. Rather than hypocrisy, however, Bo’s fear for his friend’s safety speaks to the common humanity shared by all the characters. They are all fundamentally concerned about one another, even if they struggle to express this.

“At first, I probably thought it was a bit strange to have a bloke as a carer, but that doesn’t bother me now.”

As he approaches the end of his life, Bo hints at the ways in which he has come to accept the changing nature of the world. His father would never have accepted a “bloke as a carer” (212), feeling this to be a fundamental challenge to traditional gender roles. Yet Bo, in spite of his father’s influence over him, has come to accept this. He is simply unbothered by the idea, having realized how little it matters in the grander scheme of his life. Bo has come to be more accepting that everything must change eventually.

“Her voice is powerful, so different from what it was like during our chat in my kitchen recently, making it sound as if she knew him, too. As if she’s proud of him, which makes me feel calm.”

Bo was displeased that the eulogy at his father’s funeral contained so much that he knew was not true. The eulogizer had never met his father, he believed. Listening to the eulogy for Ture, however, he is not concerned. The pretense of knowing is, in this situation, acceptable. The circumstances are different, but Bo has also mellowed with age.

“I turn my head and feel your soft scarf against my cheek.”

In the final chapters, Bo’s narration becomes more sporadic. He cannot remember how the scarf came to be beside him, and he cannot open the jar that it was stored inside. Yet he accepts its presence as a comfort, even if its presence is a tacit acceptance that his end is near. There is only so much scent left on the scarf, but Bo is so close to death that it is unlikely to expire before he does.

“I remember you saying that you knew how upset I was. I grunted something in reply, but I never told you the truth: that I was sad for months afterwards.”

At the end of his life, Bo wishes that he could have been more honest about his emotions. This statement recontextualizes the narrative. The novel is not solely an account of his final days; the narrative is Bo’s confession to Fredrika and his chance to say all the things to her, Hans, and everyone else that he felt that he could never really say.