My husband’s death smelled of cardamom. Death smells of many things, but my first memory of it was of cardamom and soft butter buns. It was Sunday morning. I was baking a gingerbread man for our son’s second birthday. We were celebrating two days in advance – Sunday was better than Tuesday, and the birthday boy was too young to know the difference anyway. My husband was out running a half marathon a bit outside Aarhus, on Denmark’s east coast, where we lived. He was late as usual, but I was determined not to let it bother me.
Everything was ready. Bunting hung from the living room ceiling, balloons stuck up everywhere. Elmer’s new balance bike was leaning against the wall. The birthday boy was taking a nap before the guests arrived. Soon the apartment would be filled with people, and I enjoyed the quiet moment before the storm.
