anemoia
Homesickness for a decade you were born too late to see, set off by a box of a stranger's 1960s slides or a song from before your parents met.
Wanting something absent, whether a person, a place, or a version of yourself.
Homesickness for a decade you were born too late to see, set off by a box of a stranger's 1960s slides or a song from before your parents met.
Standing at an airport departures board, reading out Windhoek and Montevideo, and aching to go somewhere you have never been.
A Welsh nurse in a London flat hears a male voice choir through the wall and grieves for a valley, and people, she cannot get back.
Checking work email late on a Sunday night while the dog sleeps on the rug, and wanting to mind about the inbox as little as the dog does.
Dropping the little Street View figure onto a random road in Kazakhstan and knowing that this, a fence and a gas station, is as close as you will get.
Hearing a fado on a Lisbon tram and missing a grandmother's kitchen that is gone, while half-enjoying the missing.
Hearing a song from when you were sixteen in a supermarket aisle and wanting, badly, something you cannot name or get back.
A cab driver whose son has died tells the story to passengers who do not listen, then to his horse.
Refreshing a page of cheap flights at midnight with a full week of work ahead, wanting to be on any road but this one.