Home Alone

I remember the Sunday mornings when we would wake up and cook up a big breakfast, argue over what DVD to watch, lay around finding excuses not to get out of the bed and every now and again giving each other a quick smile-laced glance of approval. Today there only is the alien meow of a cat and the tapping of my turtle’s shell against the glass pane. It’s a reflective calm, the kind that allows one to meditate, on past, present, and the yet to come. Being drawn to the past is perhaps the hardest and the uncertainty of tomorrow, we can only know then. We weave ourselves in and out of relationships, to ourselves, others, places and things. At times we grow and learn from them. At others, we continue to relive those mistakes, for often enough they are the familiar, what we recognize as home, family or simply norm. This is the normality of my moment, revisiting the nostalgia of the then and facing the uncertain struggle of tomorrow.