Days of snow drifts, and the roads are almost impassable. The windshield wipers work, but do not make the view easier for our father. He sits tense behind the wheel with responsibility for wife and three children.
We are on Bornholm. I’m fourteen years old, and I have stomach pains. When the destination finally comes into view, we have to walk the last bit with lots of gifts and luggage. It’s freezing cold and it sticks so strangely in my panties.
Inside the farm it is warm and cosy, and the smell of new baked biscuits and meatballs reach our nostrils. The living rooms look like something from a Christmas tale for children. A high-decorated tree takes up the space in the living room, and there are lots of people, adults as well as children, that I do not know.
At the toilet, Mom helps me find a piece of cotton wool and some old cloth to wrap around.
After the meal, the slightly older children play Dirt-Pants, a card game where everybody is supposed to participate. The game includes a shout “Dirt-pants!”, when you have finished your hand, and it is loud and laughing, brutal and hovering.
I blush, and think everyone can look inside me.