A Parasite of Yearning

Yearning is: a tender or urgent longing.

It was a summer, a long-lost summer where everyone was present, everyone gathered around the table. Death had not yet brushed us with its inevitable shadow, and you and I had not yet unraveled in our affections. My brothers and sisters were all there—healthy, whole, untouched yet by life's harsher trials. Abuelo and Abuela, too, had seemingly negotiated a brief escape from heaven, arriving fashionably an hour late but just in time. We devoured every dish, our laughter ringing out as if to defy the existence of a world beyond the confines of our table. It felt like both the first and last time all at once, with a stretch of infinity laid before us. There we were, suspended in time and space, encapsulated in a perfect, unrepeatable moment of communal bliss.

My father's voice, ever warm and resonant, filled the air—his jokes never-ending, his stories weaving through continents and decades, animated by the voices of old friends and their wild adventures. I listened intently to every tale, every burst of laughter, while consciously avoiding the intensity of your gaze from across the table. Your eyes held a weight of unspoken words and unresolved thoughts, yet I chose to look away, immersing myself in the comfort of familiarity, and you, in your silent understanding, respected my retreat.

This perfect moment seemed to stretch indefinitely until the arrival of dessert signaled the impending end of our gathering. As we lingered over those final sweet bites, a feeling washed over us as if we had aged decades at that table.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with strokes of deep orange and purple, the chairs were empty, the echoes of our joy lingering like ghostly laughter in the cooling air.

You and I were the last to leave the table, and we took a silent walk around the house, our hearts heavy with a silent prayer for the sun to rise once more, to restore the day and reunite us with our beloved companions. But the night had settled in, heavy and absolute. One by one, doors closed, sealing away the heartbeats within. We had promised to navigate the shadows together, to find each other within the sprawling confines of that house.

We promised to let go and find our way to each other inside the house.

But it was dark, and we let go.

And I’ve never found my room.

And I’ve never found you again.

And it turned out,

It was not my home.