The worse thing about transferring residence is not to think of the mess of things you have to carry but to decide what important things you have to leave behind.
The two pair of shoes, black and white; the old exam papers from your freshman year that certify that you are really only a mediocre student and your honorifics in your lower years are just papers; the sundries an old flame gave you while you were heading home from the old cathedral; the hula hoop you used in your gymnastics, that helped you through the hellish PE; the red cap you used while going to a mountain where someone from the past live; the dirt of a dead cactus you put beside your bed; to the ashes of letters you wrote but could not send so you burnt them inside a tin can outside; the familiar chaos — things that have no worth but have so much value to you.
Of course, you will occasionally miss the tortoiseshell cat that scratched your leg while you were eating, and the pals she sometimes invited to leave some poop on the tile flooring. The kids that roamed outside during heavy rains. The nosy neighbors. You will miss the birds on the third floor, their chirps in afternoon that reminded you of The Carpenters’ Close to You; the bed outside the building you frequent until early morning to watch a meteor shower and sunrise. And where you lie down when you talk to someone while having your mug of coffee. You will miss the silence, that in your alone time, so loud you wanted to find a new place to live — and sure you did.
And to the new place you went. You will like its green colored walls, that reminded you of avocado in a warm day; the walk from the main street, because you love walking; the noice from chickens and a dog waggling its tail. Nice unknown people. A lively yellow flower you do not know in a vase. You will smile, for the first time, that the books you brought are now perfectly arranged; the shoes, hangers, and plates are in order. The peace is finally here. You are at home, at last.
Yet within this bright lit room, in this well-organized place, something inside you irks — something that is not there when you first came here.
Something is missing, you feel. Something is messing, with your feeling.
Ah, you are homesick. You brought the filth from that old place in your heart so you are now homesick.
You are homesick to a place you always wanted to leave. The chaos. The mess. You are homesick to the dark, dirty room — to the dead cactus; to the creaking bed outside; to the old movie tickets; to the broken mirror; to the burnt love letters; to the people you remember in that concrete mass;
to someone you were once in that place
but are now dead,
dead in the past.
All you have now is an avocado green room, newly ironed curtain,
a candle, and a prayer
for your dead yesterday.
