Homesick
Postcard
Most of the boxes were mine. They were in the corner, waiting to be unpacked. I had never realised how much stuff I had, but my sister persuaded me to keep it all. “Sentimental value” and everything. And the new house had bigger bedrooms.
In fact, everything about the house was theoretically better. It was close enough to the school that I could walk. There was finally a chance that we would see snow on Christmas Day. And for once we had a proper-sized garden with a couple of trees. But homesickness ruins most things.
I hadn’t liked the idea of leaving all that much. My friends swore they’d get webcams or, if it came to it, write letters, but I was almost certain they’d just carry on with their lives. They assumed I would too. I had relatives here, after all; my mom’s cousins who had emigrated here ages ago and who I had never met. I’d have loads of people around me, and therefore I wouldn’t be lonely. That was their logic, anyway.
I left the boxes and went out to walk around. It was as busy as I would have imagined a big city to be. I didn’t feel like going into any shops, but a man with a stall caught my eye. He was selling postcards for tourists, and smiled when he saw me coming. I never understood how people can tell you’re from somewhere else, but he knew it.
I don’t know what I was expecting the postcards to be pictures of, but they were all just views of the city with something like “Greetings” written on them. I got one anyway, just to remind someone that I was far, far away.
I thought of him and stopped walking. I felt myself starting to cry and knew that everyone was looking at me. All I could think was that it was all my fault. Things could have ended up differently.
He had known that I was leaving. I had told him. I had complained that I didn’t want to leave, and he had consoled me. If I had said what I thought, maybe we wouldn’t have left. He had been too quiet.
“I suppose I just have to go anyway,” I had said, and he had hugged me. He kissed me and told me he loved me. But I still expected him to know what I was thinking, and he never knew.
“I wonder how things would have been different,” I wrote on the postcard and decided to send it to someone. Maybe not to him, but someone. Because he would still not understand- I hadn’t wanted him to let me go. He had been a perfect person, accepting that I was leaving and wishing me luck, but he hadn’t tried to make me stay. I thought he should have been angry, or at least upset, or that he should have begged me not to go. I thought that would show he loved me. I knew as I stood crying in the street that that was a stupid thing to think.
But I still wish he had fought for me.
In fact, everything about the house was theoretically better. It was close enough to the school that I could walk. There was finally a chance that we would see snow on Christmas Day. And for once we had a proper-sized garden with a couple of trees. But homesickness ruins most things.
I hadn’t liked the idea of leaving all that much. My friends swore they’d get webcams or, if it came to it, write letters, but I was almost certain they’d just carry on with their lives. They assumed I would too. I had relatives here, after all; my mom’s cousins who had emigrated here ages ago and who I had never met. I’d have loads of people around me, and therefore I wouldn’t be lonely. That was their logic, anyway.
I left the boxes and went out to walk around. It was as busy as I would have imagined a big city to be. I didn’t feel like going into any shops, but a man with a stall caught my eye. He was selling postcards for tourists, and smiled when he saw me coming. I never understood how people can tell you’re from somewhere else, but he knew it.
I don’t know what I was expecting the postcards to be pictures of, but they were all just views of the city with something like “Greetings” written on them. I got one anyway, just to remind someone that I was far, far away.
I thought of him and stopped walking. I felt myself starting to cry and knew that everyone was looking at me. All I could think was that it was all my fault. Things could have ended up differently.
He had known that I was leaving. I had told him. I had complained that I didn’t want to leave, and he had consoled me. If I had said what I thought, maybe we wouldn’t have left. He had been too quiet.
“I suppose I just have to go anyway,” I had said, and he had hugged me. He kissed me and told me he loved me. But I still expected him to know what I was thinking, and he never knew.
“I wonder how things would have been different,” I wrote on the postcard and decided to send it to someone. Maybe not to him, but someone. Because he would still not understand- I hadn’t wanted him to let me go. He had been a perfect person, accepting that I was leaving and wishing me luck, but he hadn’t tried to make me stay. I thought he should have been angry, or at least upset, or that he should have begged me not to go. I thought that would show he loved me. I knew as I stood crying in the street that that was a stupid thing to think.
But I still wish he had fought for me.