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.
Nostalgia, anticipation, and the strange texture of moments passing.
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.
The wrong-footed quiet of a stadium concourse the morning after a game, or any room built for a crowd and standing empty.
Walking past your old primary school as the same lunch chime plays, and saying the word out loud before you have decided to.
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.
The quiet pull of a used bookstore, where a pencilled price, a stranger's inscription and a forgotten bus ticket each point to an earlier owner.