I left my homeland six years ago. Well, six and a half years ago. Back then my baby cousin was 9 years old. 9, internet, she was nine.
I just saw picture of her now, all grown up, a teenage girl. So pretty and… so fifteen. So very fifteen years old. My heart skipped a beat.
How the fuck am I supposed to feel about this? I’m happy, of course, that she is now fifteen, thriving and just overall amazing. But this makes me feel old. And nostalgic. I haven’t been home for six and a half years, and her memory of me is probably that I’m her older cousin who was always teaching her the latest slang and oh, yes, the cousin with the glasses.
That was it, probably. Because her family and mine lived quite far from each other and therefore didn’t see each other often enough. We didn’t make too many memories together.
I’m sad. I miss home. I missed so much of the lives of my family. My baby cousins growing up, becoming teenagers, my aunt and uncle getting older. They were still in college when I was a kid and they spoiled me rotten. Now I saw their photos, older. They look older. My uncle has gained weight, lost quite a bit of hair. He looks older. Sorry, I’m being so repetitive. I can’t help it. He was a badass when he was a college kid.
When my mother and sister come here next year for vacation, I will demand that they bring with them a stack of the latest photos of family and relatives. And I will show Baby Bubbles all of them. The family he’s never gotten to meet yet.
Hmph. I guess we’ll call today Nostalgic Friday.