October 4. 2 am.

October 4. 2 am. I feel a nostalgia-induced loneliness after I helped my sister pack her bags and she leaves tomorrow morning, which is in a few hours. So, I come to my room and put my laptop on charge to read some OctPoWriMo poems and respond to comments. I notice I forgot my chair in her room. I go to bring it but she has also locked the door to get some sleep. I responded to some comments and now I am writing this. I don’t know why but I was just washed by this feeling so I thought to just write it down. The songs playing in my earphones are not helping.

I am sitting on the edge of the bed like a temporary chair, the charger wire doing that faint warm hum, the room suddenly too neat like it’s waiting for morning to make a decision. The house has that travel-eve quiet: zippers still echoing, the ghost of lists we ticked and re-ticked. It’s funny how a few hours can feel like a cliff. 

The chair behind a locked door has become the whole metaphor. My own seat, but not accessible tonight. I could laugh if I wasn’t this soggy with memory. I keep thinking of all our small domestic choreography... the shared creams, the borrowed stuff, the “where’s my clip?” and how it pauses when someone leaves, even if it’s just for a while.

I try another song. It also doesn’t help. The lyrics keep narrating what I don’t want narrated. I pause the music and the silence is louder, but kinder. Maybe I’ll make some tea. (No, I probably won't. My mother will wake up.) Maybe I will keep scrolling through poems and leave a few comments that sound like I am steadier than I feel. 

I know this is ordinary. Sisters leave, mornings arrive, flights take off. But tonight it feels like a tiny season changing in my chest. Maybe that’s all nostalgia is: the weather report of the heart saying, “cloudy with a chance of old summers.” I will sleep soon. Or try. If you’re reading this later today: I am fine, just pre-missing things. Tomorrow I will fetch my chair, open the windows, and tidy the wire spaghetti on my desk. For now, I’ll let the night be what it is and write one more line so the feeling has somewhere to sit.

It’s strange how a small, ordinary night can suddenly feel like the end of an era. Some nights don’t wait for morning to remind you how much has already changed.

~ Oizys.