Sillage

The house is empty. You've collected your belongings in the cradle of your arms. They're sparse and choice. You look at the rooms, now filled with a barren bed, with a used coffee mug forgotten by the bedside, on a table that's broken a leg. You wonder when the once warm, yellow walls started peeling off, the shining wood of the cupboard holding all your favourite books came unhinged and you feel the sadness collect in the wrinkles on the corner of your eyes.

But before yearning gets the better of you, you turn quickly around and walk away from your beloved room, the wooden floor creaking in complaint, against your brisk stride. You march straight out of that beautiful blue door that you loved to knock on, when you came home, tired but smiling. You walk, your eyes wandering over the curved path of cobblestones, leading to the gate and you slow down. You turn around. You breathe in the familiar shape of that pretty wooden house, which has a broken stained-glass window in the attic, from which the sunlight is trying to break free. You inhale the smell of comfort that was once all yours, you bow your head out of respect to the indomitable pile of memories and you kiss that beautiful but empty house goodbye.

You're leaving till your eyes fall upon a single dandelion, dancing in the breeze, by the letterbox, just outside the wrought iron gates you once called your own. You kneel, with a smile on your face, of marvel and the bittersweet taste of separation. You blow it away, the dandelion- free, soaring to avenues where it will find its roots and grow again.

You get back up, caress the intricate design of the black iron gates, smiling to yourself. Exhale, look up to the setting sun and start walking away, to the beat of your heart that's drumming- what you are seeking, is seeking you.