A funeral can go on for weeks, because few events in life are a better opportunity to tell stories. Admittedly on the first day it's mainly stories about sorrow and loss, but gradually as the days and nights pass, they transform into the sorts of stories that you can't tell without bursting out laughing. Stories about how the deceased once read the instructions "Apply to the face but not around the eyes" on the packaging of some skin cream, and then called the manufacturer with extreme annoyance to point out that this is precisely where the face is positioned. Or how she employed a dragon to caramelize the tops of all the crème brûlées before a big party in the castle, but forgot to check whether the dragon had a cold. Or how she stood on her balcony with her dressing gown hanging open, shooting at people with a paintball gun.

You never say good-bye in the Land-of-Almost-Awake. You just say "See you later." It's important to people in the Land-of-Almost-Awake that it should be this way, because they believe that nothing really ever completely dies. It just turns into a story, undergoes a little shift in grammar, changes tense from "now" to "then."

"Alf says it's lucky he turned out to be a boy, because the women in our family are 'so bonkers they're a safety hazard,' " she chuckles, making quotation marks in the air and grumpily dragging her feet through the snow, Alf-style. The cold is nipping at her cheeks. She nips it back. Dad digs away the snow and scrapes his spade along the top layer of earth. Elsa tightens her Gryffindor scarf around her neck. Scatters the wurse's ashes over Granny's grave and a thick layer of cinnamon bun crumbs over the ashes.

And the Miamasians laugh so loudly that the stories rise up like lanterns around the grave. Until all stories are one and the tenses are one and the same. They laugh until no one can forget that this is what we leave behind when we go: the laughs.

She's going to tell all their stories. She's already telling him the first few as she wanders back to Audi with Dad. And Dad listens. He turns down the volume of the stereo before Elsa has time to jump in. Elsa scrutinizes him.

Then she hugs the gravestone tight, tight, tight, and whispers: "See you later!"

"Halfie turned out to be a boy-half. He's going to be called Harry!" Elsa explains proudly as she scrapes snow from the stone.

Elsa opens and shuts the glove compartment as Audi glides up the highway.

"I don't get upset."

"Maybe I'm upset on the inside?"

"You can be a little bit upset," mutters Elsa.

"I know you don't mean that," Elsa protests.

"You shouldn't be so upset that I feel guilty about it. Just upset enough so it doesn't feel like you're not bothered!" explains Elsa.

"He's quite okay. George, I mean."

"No."

"That looks too upset."

Dad nods dubiously and manages to stop himself from pointing out that she should avoid using English words when there are perfectly good alternatives in her own language.

"Not even a little?" says Elsa, offended.

"Now you're not looking at all upset!"

"Okay… I am a bit upset," Dad tries, and actually does look upset.

Elsa scrutinizes him before conceding: "Deal." She says it in English.

"Were you upset yesterday when I hugged George at the hospital?" she asks.

He tries again.

"I don't want you to be upset."

"Sorry," says Dad, beginning to sound stressed.

"Am I allowed to be upset?" wonders Dad.

"Yes," says Dad.

"But there's a 'but' coming here, isn't there? It feels like there's a 'but' coming," mumbles Elsa.

Dad looks stressed again.

"Is that it?"

Dad sighs.

Elsa looks at him for a long time before she asks: "Is that why Lisette loves you? Because you are very ingoing?"

"Fun?"

"But?"

"I thought you and Lisette never came to us at Christmas because you don't like George."

"Why can't it be your mother's fault? Perhaps we don't visit you at Christmas because Mum doesn't like Lisette."

"How do you mean?"

"So why don't we ever have Christmas together, then?" mutters Elsa with irritation.

"I was going to say he seems very outgoing."

"George is okay." Dad nods as if he means it.

Dad fingers the steering wheel nervously.

"I have nothing at all against George."

"But?"

"And you're very… ingoing?"

"But I suppose George and I are quite different in terms of our… personalities, perhaps. He's very…"

Dad looks uncomfortable. He's a terrible liar. "No. Everyone likes Lisette. I'm well aware of it." He says it as people do when considering an extremely irritating character trait in the person they live with.

"Incredibly," he says without any hesitation.

"Dad, there's NO ONE who doesn't like Star Wars except you!"

"So why are you together, then?"

"I have to admit I've never asked."

"And you and Mum tried to change each other?"

"Are you going to ask why Mum and I stopped loving each other?"

"I was going to ask why you started."

"Does she like Star Wars?"

Dad seems unwilling to take issue with this.

"I don't know why she loves me, if I'm to be quite honest."

Dad smiles.

"Because we accept each other as we are, perhaps."

He leans over and kisses her forehead.

"Lisette and I are also very different," he points out.

"Was our marriage so terrible, in your view?"

"We're different in other ways. I'm almost sure about that."

But then he immediately looks quite hesitant again.

"How can you NOT have asked her that?!"

"I mean, you're very different, that's all. She doesn't like Apple, that sort of thing. And you kind of don't like Star Wars."

"There are plenty of people who don't like Star Wars."

"Do you love her?"

Elsa shrugs.

"I knew," he interrupts.

Elsa blinks intensely. Takes a deep breath. Gathers her energy and whispers: "Those texts from Mum you got on the last day of school before the Christmas holiday. About not having to pick me up? I wrote them. I lied, so I could deliver one of Granny's letters --"

"I worry about how wise you are sometimes, darling."

Elsa squints suspiciously at him. He smiles.

"The grammar was too perfect. I knew right away."

"You… my darling… you can stay with us as often as you like!" Dad stammers, quite overwhelmed.

"No. Only every other weekend. And I get that it's because I'm different and it upsets your 'family harmony.' But Mum is having Halfie now. And actually Mum can't do everything all the time because no one's perfect all the time. Not even Mum!"

It's still snowing. It's one of those magical winters when it never seems to end. After Audi has stopped outside Mum's house, Elsa turns to Dad very seriously. "I want to stay with you and Lisette more often than every other weekend. Even if you don't want that."

"I read things."

"We didn't want to take you away from the house," he whispers.

"Because you didn't want to take me away from Mum?"

"Where… 'family harmony'… where did you get that from?"

"It's hard for a child to accept it too," says Elsa, and pats him on the cheek. He holds on to her fingers.

The last words between them dissipate into the air and leave nothing behind. The snowflakes are falling so densely against Audi's windshield that the world in front of them seems to have disappeared. Elsa holds Dad's hand. Dad holds hers even tighter.

"Because none of us wanted to take you away from your granny."

"It's hard for a parent to accept that you can't protect your child from everything."

"I'm an ambivalent person. I know this makes me a bad father. I've always worried that my life should be in better order before you start living with us for longer periods. I thought it was for your sake. That's what parents often do, I think, we persuade ourselves we're doing everything for the sake of the child. It's too painful to us to admit that our children won't wait to grow up because their parents are busy with other things…"

Dad buries his nose in her hair.

"Where's that from?" Elsa snorts.

Elsa's forehead rests in the palm of his hand when she whispers: "You don't need to be a perfect dad, Dad. But you have to be my dad. And you can't let Mum be more of a parent than you just because she happens to be a superhero."

"We just didn't want you to become one of those children who have two homes but feel like a visitor in both," he says.

"As smart people go, you and Mum are really insanely unsmart sometimes," Elsa says, and then smiles. "But don't worry about how it'll be when you're living with me, Dad. I promise we can make some things really boring!"

"We read things."

Dad nods and tries not to look puzzled when Elsa tells him they're going to celebrate her birthday at his and Lisette's house, because Mum and George and Halfie are still at the hospital. And Dad tries not to look stressed when Elsa says that she has already called Lisette and arranged everything. But he looks much calmer when Elsa tells him he can make the invitation cards. Because Dad immediately starts thinking about suitable fonts, and fonts have a very calming effect on Dad.

"This is the last chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone," she finally manages to say.

"It's an audiobook," Dad admits with embarrassment.

"They have to be ready this afternoon, though!" says Elsa, and Dad promises they will be.

Elsa is about to jump out of the car. But since Dad already seems more hesitant and stressed than usual, she turns his stereo on so he can listen to his crappy music for a while. But no music comes out, and it probably takes two or three pages before it really sinks in for Elsa.

Elsa stares at the stereo. Dad keeps his hands on the steering wheel, concentrating. Even Audi has been stationary for a while now.

"When you were small, we always read together. I always knew which chapter you were on in every book. But you read so quickly now, and keep up with all the things you like. Harry Potter seems to mean such a lot to you, and I want to understand the things that mean a lot to you," he says, red-faced, as he looks down at the horn.

They actually end up being ready in March. But that's another story.

And then Dad looks very, very stressed again.

"Dad. I love you. I really do. But do you live under a stone or what?"

Elsa hugs him and gets out of Audi. The sun is reflecting off the snow.

"There's a film about Harry Potter, did you know that?" He grins.

And it is actually a bit of a pity, thinks Elsa. Because it's the funniest thing Dad has ever said. It seems to set him off, as he suddenly becomes animated.

"Everyone knows that, Dad."

Dad nods. "I don't really watch films. But maybe we could see this Harry Potter one sometime, you and me? Is it very long?"

"You knew that already?" asks Dad, a little surprised.

Elsa pats him indulgently on the cheek.

"There are seven books, Dad. And eight films," says Elsa carefully.

Elsa sits in silence. Dad clears his throat. "It's actually a bit of a pity that you get on so well with Britt-Marie nowadays, because while I was listening to this book it struck me I could have called her She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at some suitable opportunity. I had a feeling that would make you laugh…"

Britt-Marie's door is open. She's wearing her floral-print jacket. Elsa can see in the hall mirror that she's making the bed in the bedroom. There are two suitcases inside the threshold. Britt-Marie straightens a last crease in the bedspread, sighs deeply, turns around, and goes into the hall.

Alf is trudging about outside the entrance, trying not to slip in his worn-down shoes, with a snow shovel in his hands. Elsa thinks about the tradition in the Land-of-Almost-Awake of giving away presents on your birthday, and decides that next year she'll give Alf a pair of shoes. But not this year, because this year he's getting an electric screwdriver.

And then Elsa says "What?" and Britt-Marie says "Excuse me?" at the exact same moment. It's all rather disorienting.

She looks at Elsa and Elsa looks at her and neither of them can quite bring herself to say anything, until they both burst out at the same time: "I have a letter for you!"

"I have a letter for you, from Granny! It was taped to the floor under the stroller by the stairs!"

Elsa grins. Britt-Marie doesn't grin, but Elsa has a feeling she may be grinning on the inside.

"It was you who taught the drunk to sing that song when she was on the stairs, yelling, wasn't it? And then the drunk grew completely calm and went to bed. And your mother was a singing teacher. And I don't think drunks can sing songs like that."

"Are you going somewhere?"

"Where?"

"Yes."

Britt-Marie purses her mouth.

"I was hardly going to leave without making the beds and cleaning the dryer filter first, Elsa. Just imagine if something were to happen to me while I was away? I'm not going to let people think I was some sort of barbarian!"

"I don't know," admits Britt-Marie.

Britt-Marie clasps her hands together slightly nervously over her stomach. Looks as if she'd like to brush something off the sleeve of Elsa's jacket.

"What were you doing in the laundry?"

Elsa tilts her head. Looks at the suitcases.

"I see, I see. I also have a letter for you. It was in the tumble-dryer filter in the laundry room."

"David and Pernilla used to like it when I sang them that song, when they were small. Of course they don't remember that now, but they used to like it very much, they really did."

"You're not a complete shit, Britt-Marie, are you?" says Elsa with a smile.

Britt-Marie clasps her hands together even harder. Nervously rubs the white streak where her wedding ring used to be.

And then they exchange letters. On Elsa's envelope it says "ELSA," and, on Britt-Marie's, "THE BAT." Britt-Marie reads hers out without Elsa even having to ask. She's good in that way, Britt-Marie. It's quite long, of course. Granny has quite a lot to apologize about, and most people haven't had anywhere near as many reasons over the years to be apologized to as Britt-Marie. There's an apology about that thing with the snowman. And an apology about the blanket fluff in the tumble-dryer. And an apology about that time Granny happened to shoot at Britt-Marie with the paintball gun when she had just bought it and was "testing it out a bit" from the balcony. Apparently, one time she hit Britt-Marie on the bum when Britt-Marie was wearing her best skirt, and you actually can't even hide stains with brooches if the stains are on your bum. Because it's not civilized to wear brooches on your bum. Granny writes that she can understand that now.

"Thanks," says Britt-Marie hesitantly, as if she's been asked a trick question.

"Granny knew you'd solve the crossword on the stairs."

"Sorry I never told you you desserve much better then Kent. Because you do. Even if you are an old bat!"

But the biggest apology comes at the end of the letter, and when Britt-Marie is reading it out the words get stuck at the back of her throat, so Elsa has to lean forward and read it herself.

Elsa pats her on the arm.

Britt-Marie carefully folds up the letter with the edges exactly together, and then she looks at Elsa and tries to smile like a normal human being.

"It was done in pencil. Granny always said you were one of those who had to make all the beds before you went on holiday and couldn't even solve a crossword in ink unless you'd had two glasses of wine first. And I've never seen you drink wine."

And then she points at the envelope in Britt-Marie's hand. There's something else inside. Something that's jingling. Britt-Marie opens the seal and leans her head over the opening, peering inside as if she assumes Granny in person will shortly be jumping out and roaring, "WAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Britt-Marie fidgets with Granny's letter, as if at a loss.

"How did you know it was me?"

Britt-Marie seems to brush her damp eyes with the sleeve of the floral-print jacket. Elsa closes the door. And then Britt-Marie drives off. She doesn't know where. But she's going to see the world and she's going to feel the wind in her hair. And she's going to solve all her crosswords in ink.

And then she sticks her hand inside and gets out Granny's car keys.

Elsa and Alf help her with the bags. Renault starts on the first try. Britt-Marie takes the deepest breath Elsa has ever seen any person take. Elsa sticks her head inside on the passenger side and yells over the din of the engine: "I like lollipops and comics!"

Britt-Marie looks as if she's trying to answer but something is lodged in her throat. So Elsa grins and shrugs and adds: "I'm just saying. In case you ever have any to spare."

But that, as in all fairy tales, is a completely different story.

Alf stays in the garage and keeps looking long after she's out of sight. He shovels snow the whole evening and most of the next morning.

Elsa sits in Granny's wardrobe. It smells of Granny. The whole house smells of Granny. There's something quite special about a granny's house. Even if ten or twenty or thirty years go by, you never forget how it smells. And the envelope with her last letter smells just like the house. Smells of tobacco and monkey and coffee and beer and lilies and cleaning agents and leather and rubber and soap and alcohol and protein bars and mint and wine and tires and wood shavings and dust and cinnamon buns and smoke and sponge cake mix and clothes shop and candle grease and O'boy and dishcloth and dreams and spruce tree and pizza and mulled wine and potato and meringues and perfume and peanut cake and glass and baby. It smells of Granny. Smells like the best of someone who was mad in the best possible way.

And that's the day Elsa forgives her granny about that.

But the first five words are: 'Sorry I have to dye.'

Elsa's name is written in almost neat letters on the envelope and it's apparent that Granny really did her utmost to spell everything correctly. It didn't go so very well.