I met Malin today, haven't seen her for a year or two. She is a farmer, her husband is a farmer, the children are farmers' children. She came with a sack full of stale bread for the cows.
They saw her from far, or rather heard her car, they looked up, not too eager like they agreed to see what she got before they welcomed her and moved forward. It's a small herd, eight or ten cows. Two of them are from Småland, Malin told me, the red ones. The smallest was born in March, she has a twin but she is in another herd with a new mother who lost her own calf. It all went well and not one bull calf this year, only girls.
Malin called for them.
One of them set off into a kind of gallop.
- That's Lillian, she said. She loves bread.
I love Malin's smile. Cows make her happy, that's all.
I see her cows from the windows in my little house in Sweden. I look at them a lot, trying to understand, why a cow makes me feel good. Like I'm not quite ready to accept very basic things in life. It's fat stock. They will be slaughtered after all. I know. They don't.
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