Here I am, finally watching the New Year’s fireworks from my Mum’s bedroom, just like twenty years ago. My forehead is glued to the ice frosted window, hands on the sill, eyes mesmerised by the action outside.
Fireworks… I always wondered why its magic ends up so abruptly, shooting sparks in all different directions, to die off in separation?..
I am not six anymore, and this bedroom does not belong to my Mum. In fact, I don’t even live in this apartment, city or country. I am a visitor – but more likely a stranger who knocked on the door – frozen, embarrassed and hopeful for… memories? Stories? Sense of inclusion? Cliches – that’s all I have left.
Shame… The paper wall doesn’t smell like Mum’s musky perfume anymore. I close my eyes to breath in the aroma. The clock is ticking on her nightstand, next to Andersen’s thick fairytale book, the one we were reading each night before going to bed…
I open my eyes. No clock. No book. No bed… Not even her.
The night is chilly and I better start moving… Those guys next door aren’t happy about a weirdo spoiling their party. That’s right, they are banging on the door. Time is up.
I have to go… empty-handed. Empty-hearted. Lost.
Fireworks… One more before the fairytale ends. Please… let me finish watching…
Baggage of Thoughts 