I miss my mother calling from the kitchen,
or from her room, her voice so warm and clear,
those little calls I never thought I'd miss—
now every quiet makes me wish she's near.
I miss my younger sister picking fights,
over the silliest things we'd ever say,
we'd argue, sulk, then laugh before the night—
I’d give so much to have one of those days.
I miss my elder sister's endless chatter,
those random yapping sessions without an end,
we'd talk of everything and nothing after—
and somehow every nothing felt like a friend.
I miss my father calling from the car,
that familiar voice we'd hear and run to see.
He dropped me here today, then drove afar—
he went back home, but home still stayed with me.
My aunts would call for reasons barely there,
my sisters' names would suddenly light my phone;
the smallest interruptions filled the air—
I never knew how much they made it home.
The neighbour kids would come to play with me,
with muddy shoes and laughter at the door;
I'd sometimes wish they'd leave eventually—
now I would let them stay forevermore.
And now this room is painfully still,
a strange, awkward silence fills the air.
I don't want food. I don't want water. I don't—
I think I only want my people here.
My books are here. My clothes are here. I'm here.
I've brought along the things I thought I'd need.
But everything feels strangely far and bare,
as if I left the most important piece.
I thought I wanted quiet for a while.
I thought I'd love the freedom of my own.
But silence has a different kind of smile
when every voice you love is far from home.
So if tonight I cry, let me be—
I am not weak for wanting them tonight.
I'm sixteen, and I have just begun to leave,
but part of me still waits beneath that light.
I want them back.
My mother's voice.
My sisters' noise.
My father's call.
The little things I never thought I'd miss—
I miss them all.