Homesick

“Wallet?” Check.

“ID?” Check.

“Medicines?” Handy in my handbag.

“Ugh! It’s less than 18 hours for my trip to end.”

“Back to business. Back to the grind.”

“Where did the past 18 days go?” *a disappointing, disheartening eye-roll*

“I think I’ve managed to pack everything.”

“Have You?” *inner voice murmurs*

“What am I forgetting?” “What am I forgetting?”

Is it my 𝘮𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢'𝘴 soothing lullabies hidden in the first drawer of the almirah?

Or is it the pile of Bukowski poems nicely folded on the third shelf?

Is it the dad’s bottle of cologne that I had to beg, borrow and steal?

Or is it my 𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘪-𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘢'𝘴 bedtime stories, stowed in the locker as she would?

Is it the giggles of my school bestie whom I don’t talk to anymore?

Or is it the letter I wrote to my first crush, who didn’t love me back?

“What is it?” “What is it?”

“Oh silly, it’s your home that you’re leaving behind”, my heart whispered.