Timeless Homes

    The day began like any other. 

    My gaze fixed on the ceiling, lost among the rough textures and the shadows cast by the light seeping through the curtains. I didn’t know—not then—that today I would write this. And yet… here I am, pouring a deep feeling into words.

    Let me tell you a bit about myself. It’s nothing transcendental in my opinion—though perhaps it is, depending on who’s looking. I’ve always been a person of few words. Since those early childhood years when saying didn’t matter as much as doing. Only actions had value, not opinions. So I got used to this little bubble where all my worlds fit. I needed very few people—so very few—to feel accompanied. As a result—whether for better or worse—I never clung to anyone. I always believed that if I was born alone, I could be alone and die that way when the time came. I didn’t fear isolation; I adored solitude. I still do.

    Along my journey through the epistolary lagoon—or perhaps I should call it a sea teeming with endless species—I’ve had the joy of meeting wonderful people. Endearing souls who left such a searing mark on my heart that their names remain etched there like sweet scars—scars that no longer burn, but still warm. I’ve also met others, more errant, more distant, and more fearful of loss. I remember the first time someone told me: “Don’t you feel disappointed, hurt, and sorrowful when good people leave?” And another time, someone else observed: “I don’t open up to just anyone, you know? I’m afraid they’ll get to know me and then vanish like a ghost… You give them the power to hurt you.” I think the latter was said by a young man from South Korea.

    Every time I met someone who told me something similar, I would just smile. They managed to draw from me a sincere smile full of understanding. I understand what they meant. But I don’t share the sentiment. Most of the time, when I’ve come across deeply interesting people, I don’t drown in disappointment when they disappear. I look into the fog where they went and offer a grateful nod. I’ve always said people are like trains and stations at once. Sometimes, we become stations—anchored to a single place, rooting ourselves into the earth, open to the arrival of a train. Other times, we want to be wagons, growing wheels from those roots, letting ourselves be carried along life’s tracks. Over time, thanks to that little bubble I had since childhood, I came to understand that people come and go. It’s not that no one else knows it—but I believe not everyone accepts it with grace and reverence. Partings are part of life. Walking is in our nature. So why expect others to stay still in one place?

    Still, I confess that on just a few occasions, I’ve felt longing for those wagons that once left my station. I’ve remained there, eyes fixed on the horizon, waiting for those souls to return—or to pass by again and see I’m still where they found me. I don’t get disappointed when many leave. I don’t feel judged when many go after meeting me and failing to understand who I am. They don’t hurt me because they haven’t left a true mark.

    But there are exceptions in life, aren’t there?

    We stumble upon hidden treasures in the most remote corners of the world, from the most unexpected places, and that is a gift of fate. It’s as if someone touches your shoulder and says: “Hey! I’ve been here all along, and you didn’t see me!” What a comforting feeling that is. Sometimes I think we don’t have just one home—we have many, just as we’ve lived many lives. I’ve found a few homes where I felt embraced and warm. And that cannot be compared to a station. Some of those homes are no longer here—and that weighs heavily. I won’t again feel the scent of their rugs, those comforting arms disguised as letters. And it’s hard to accept that I won’t return to that home. But that’s how it is, isn’t it? Life gives us gifts, and when they end or fade, we are left with memories—the memory of feelings and emotions that fill our inner self and spill into a fleeting smile.

    Today, without realizing it, I felt the fear of losing the homes that still remain. The fear of losing one of those friends who fill the heart and caress with words. This isn’t to downplay the value of my other friends—so few, like the fingers on my right hand—because a friend is a friend, and the rest… are acquaintances. This little letter is for all those friends—who know very well who they are—and who have remained with me. It is also for those who are no longer here but are still my home, those friends who taught me so much and continue teaching me, even in their absence.

    But especially, today I had to say goodbye—hopefully just temporarily—to one of the lighthouses that made me smile and cry at the same time. For you, I stared at the ceiling and silently wished for your safe return. None of your words ever hurt or offended me. On the contrary, each tear was one of gratitude for your appearance among those globes I saw in a postcard of yours. If you ever doubt that I might disappear—I’m still here. As I’ve always said: I’m still here for you, just as you’ve been for me.

    I’m still here for all those who seek a gaze free of judgment and criticism—perhaps a little timid for fear of saying the wrong thing, but always careful with others’ hearts.

*Dear friend…

This isn’t a goodbye. It’s a “come back soon—I’m still here.”

If your journey becomes difficult, you know where to find me.

You have more than one way to return to this home where you once found a good friend.

I’ll be sitting at the corner café, watching the harbor as the rain falls, stroking Dosto’s back while we both recall the scent of clove in your cigarette—my nymph sending feathers from time to time, to light your way along your path.

 

Rosmery*