Every Day

I never understood when people said that they’ve missed something every single day. I couldn’t believe that any memory could have the power to sneak into the mind that often. But of late, a thought has had me occupied. Something or the other reminds me of it. It lurks in every corner of every room, in every breeze that rustles the sunlit trees. I just can’t help but be surprised at my own reminiscing. I now understand the true meaning of nostalgia, and what it feels like to miss something every day.

I miss it when I’m sitting in my bed and listening to the rain fall on the cemented pavement outside my room. I miss it when a cloud thunders angrily outside my window and for a moment, electric purple light fills my room. I miss it when I close my eyes and see an orange tree and think of fresh orange juice in the morning. I miss it when I’m baking and when the touch of a warm cake fills me with joy. I miss it when I think of a song called ‘Danny Boy’ that I’ve listened to only once in my life. I miss it when I’m sad and when I need the cold to hug me tight. I miss it when I think of people falling in love and how the cold somehow has the ability to bring people closer. I miss it when I lay my head down to sleep and my dreams whisper one word like a lullaby: winters.

The last winter season came during one of the most difficult spells in my life. It was one of those times when you feel like everything around you is changing but you are frozen in time. It was like when your heart and soul are numb and you yearn to feel again. It was a time when I learnt, through trial, that your Self is your greatest enemy and if you pledge allegiance to yourself, you can change the world. It was like coming home from war.

Winter nights were my haven. I used to turn in late, wearing my favorite grey hood under a quilt that I had marked as mine. I would listen to some songs to quieten the buzz of worldly worries and lull myself to sleep. Some nights it would work, other nights it wouldn’t. It frustrated me to no end. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I would ask myself if I’m okay. But every morning, I would wake up to a crisp, winter air and an empty house and I would tell myself: you’re okay. I would make myself an omelet, pack my tea and soldier on.

Solitude is the best part of winter. It gives me a deeper connection with myself, and this is something I have never been able to comprehend fully. In those moments I steal in the backyard, in a frosty sunset or under the warmth of a proud moon, I feel my spirit and soul freer. I realize how shallow summers have been for me, swooshing by in a flash. But in winters, I truly live. I am aware of every passing day and every moment. I laugh more. I cry more. I feel more. Why winters are this important to me is a baffling question. Maybe it’s because I breathed my first breath in a chilly December air, and Decembers have brought me very close to breathing my last, more often than once.