homeward

 To every friend

I have met beneath different skies,

to the ones who arrived briefly

and still left fingerprints

on who I was becoming,

this is for you.

But especially for the ones

who knew me

before I had an identity of my own.

To those I have known

for more than a decade,

we grew inside the same corridors,

our laughter ricocheting off classroom walls,

our names written into checklists

and carved quietly

into one another’s memories.

We saw each other unguarded,

not only in the ordinary,

deeply embarrassing ways

of growing up side by side,

but in the moments

when life stripped us

of every practiced version

of ourselves.

We knew the bodies

that carried no shame,

the faces swollen from crying,

the secrets whispered

between bathroom stalls,

the disasters, or “matters,” as we called them,

that we swore were the end of the world

and later laughed about

until our stomachs hurt.

We lived through things

that should have scattered us.

Instead,

we made inside jokes

from the silliest, strangest,

most hideous catchphrases.

We built private languages

that not a single soul outside us

could ever understand.

Perhaps that is what friendship is:

not a promise

that life will remain still,

but a small lantern

passed from one hand to another

when the road grows unfamiliar.

Some of you became seasons.

Some became shelter.

Some were only passing constellations.

But even stars that disappear

leave the sky changed.

And to the few

who remained despite distance,

despite silence,

despite circumstances

that pulled at us

from opposite ends of life,

you are the old house

I still find

in every dream.

Time may have taken away

our shared classrooms,

our lunch breaks,

our bunk beds.

Life may have carried us

into different cities,

different versions of ourselves,

different storms.

Yet somewhere,

there is still a dormitory

with three attached bunk beds,

and we are holding on

to dear life.

Someone is laughing too loudly.

Someone is whining over something

we will one day turn into a joke.

Someone is reenacting

every possible scenario from that day,

as though the incident(me)

deserves a full theatrical production.

Someone else is adding details,

fuel,

and an entirely unnecessary plot twist.

Someone is calling my name

from the other end of the corridor.

And I am running toward you,

certain that the years have not moved.

But the moment i always look back to

is all of us

on that one cot,

laughing our hearts out,

trying to fit our whole world

into a space

far too small to hold it.

Time, as we know it,

is very funny.

We may not have spoken

for months,

or even years,

but one conversation

and we are eleven again.

Thirteen.

Fifteen.

The years fold themselves away

as though they were never there.

It is infact that easy to go back home.

Maybe some friendships

are not roads but roots.

They disappear beneath the earth,

quiet and unseen,

and continue growing

in places we no longer visit.

They hold us steady

without asking to be noticed.

Perhaps we are like fibrous roots,

spreading in every direction,

separate above the ground

but still woven beneath it.

And perhaps, one day,

those roots will grow new ones, adventitious and unexpected,

finding their way back.

So this is for every friend

who helped build me

without ever knowing

they were holding bricks.

to her who's shoulder I have cried on.

to them, who let me rant, yap, spiral,

and speak in unfinished sentences

without making me feel

like I have to be quieter.

to the boys who taught me

how easy life could feel when you stopped gripping it so tightly,

how to let go,

laugh louder,

and simply live.

For every hand that stayed.

For every hand

that let go gently.

For every person

who knew a version of me

that no longer exists

and loved her anyway.

For the ones

who watched my face change

through the years

and still recognised me.

We may not walkthe same path now.

But somewhere

beneath all our separate lives,

the roots are still touching.

And perhaps that is why,

no matter how far we go,

some names still feel like rooms.

Some voices still sound like corridors.

Some memories still open like doors.

To all of you

Happy Friendship’s Day.

You have built me

a very good house.

Nay,

you have built me

a lovely home.

                                 -Deia