It’s a whale of a story.
And a story about a whale.
Here’s how it ends.
The third time Avijk phones, my roommate answers. The line is dead, so she knows it’s Avijk and calls for me. But the line is dead for me too. I know she’s there but I can’t hear her. Something is terribly wrong. I leave immediately to go and see her — taking my boat out to the spot where we usually meet. Finally, she comes. Moving so slowly. She’s very sick — dying. I cry, embrace her, stroke her. She cries a little, too. We say our goodbyes, and I go home feeling very sad.
I sit alone in my living room. I can feel something coming but I don’t know what it is. I close my eyes — and for a moment, just a moment — I’m five years old. My grandmother is making Danish pancakes for me in the kitchen of her tiny apartment in Copenhagen. Suddenly, a tremendous force pushes open the kitchen shutters, reaches me in the next room and slams me, pinning me against the wall.
Avijk has died and her spirit has come here, faster than the subway, faster than the wind, and entered me. And I am filled with such tremendous joy and peace that I can barely contain it in my body.
Sonja Mills with “Avijk” in desire high heels red wine shows us what happens to cetacean-human relations when you start off a story with “My best fried is Avijk the whale.”
And so for day 345