There’s too much sun here, not enough fog and wind. I hate being sweaty and heaven knows, I am sick to death of rice.

Everything reminds me relentlessly, of where I’m not.

I’m mostly exhausted because without you, I’m just sick.

Without you, I’m not home.

I’ve learned how the elements of homesickness are in the infinite little routines we have daily. Where do I put them, these tiny familiar urges that make me whole, when my surroundings are not mine? I miss so many things—

Hearing the sounds of saxophone, flute and bitter alley spats wafting through our windows.

All the time now, nothing feels right. How can it? I worry constantly about my fussy plants. I hope you’re whispering sweet nothings to them on my behalf. I read somewhere that like us, they need it to thrive.

You know, I keep swallowing the urge to yell “Cookie!”, because what’s a day without worrying about our dog playing truant. Has she been good? I miss her soft eyes.

I’m choking on the lack of fur in my nose and Mila’s missing head butts. I want her to yell at me so bad, like she always does, for no reason at all.

But mostly, each day, I weep with fear. I want to be home before those two old furry loves cross the rainbow bridge. How will I survive the heartbreak alone.

Choking on homesickness,

As I sip on awful coffee too bitter and weak, quite unlike anything I’d ever endure in our own kitchen—

The coffee speaks for my feelings: alone, exiled away from home and love. Filled with resentment and snot from COVID. But also, longing for my kitchen where lentil stew would simmer on the stove three times a week.

It’ll hurt as usual, not waking up in our bed tomorrow. My soft, worn sheets and the steady snores (yours and the dog’s) have come to define the quality of my rest. Without them, sleep is just stone cold.