nostalgia
— the tender ache of missing a moment that has passed, as though a little piece of yesterday were still waiting to be found.
a few days ago, i opened the little wooden chest beneath my bed.
i had been looking for a length of ribbon to mend the lace of a dress, but instead, i found a handkerchief folded into a very small square. it was white once, i think, although the years had given it the colour of old cream. in one corner, a little flower embroidered.
i held it against my cheek.
it smelled faintly of lavender, and something else i could not quite name. something like the warmth of a room after everyone has gone to bed.
for a moment, i felt that i ought to remember something.
a voice calling from another room, and a pair of hands teaching mine how to make the little stitches. i could almost imagine sitting beside someone at a window, our needles moving slowly through the afternoon.
whenever i tried to see her face, the memory became as thin as mist. still, i knew exactly who she was.
as i remembered, i felt a little ache beneath my ribs, as though my heart were reaching for something it had once held dear.
i took the handkerchief downstairs and washed it very gently in a basin of warm water. then i hung it beside the kitchen window, where the pale sunlight could find it.
while it dried, i made myself a cup of tea.
the house was unusually still. even the old clock seemed to have forgotten to tick. and then, quite suddenly, i heard something.
it was a little tune, soft and distant, coming from somewhere beyond the windows. without thinking, i began to hum along.
then, it stopped.
i waited, holding my teacup between both hands, but the house had returned to its ordinary silence.
the melody remained with me all afternoon. it was familiar, and i hummed it while sweeping the porch, while folding my linens, and while watching the last of the sunlight disappear between the trees.
by evening, the handkerchief was dry. i folded it carefully and placed it in the drawer of my nightstand, where i thought it might feel less lonely than inside the chest.
i wonder whether memories can miss us, too.
perhaps somewhere, she's still sitting beside a window, waiting for me to finish my little flower.
i hope she knows that i remember.