Between two mornings
Some nights I am still awake when morning begins. As an immigrant living between places and time zones, I carry more than one clock inside me. Once, my days spilled easily into rooms full of friends; now I can be a night crawler bargaining with an early class—wondering whether my partner will wake soon and leave for work, whether tomorrow’s slides are ready, whether a deadline has quietly moved closer. And then: oh no, LinkedIn. Perhaps I should look.
Behind these smaller alarms lives a larger one. My parents are growing older far away. I call and hear a tired voice, a cough, or the quiet suggestion that something is missing. Distance turns love into questions I cannot always answer: Are they well? Did I call enough? What does it mean to build a life here while part of my heart keeps listening seven thousand kilometres away?
Still, life refuses to be only worry. The sun pours gold across the sky—goldy-gold, almost unreal. A ridiculous meme makes me laugh. Friends appear together on a phone screen, smiling from the other side of the world, and for a while the kilometres disappear. Then an email arrives: the paper is accepted. A colleague says something kind. A small accomplishment knocks at the door, and I catch myself smiling before anyone else can see.
Yes, life goes on. Time passes through unfinished slides, missed sleep, distant voices, good news, private laughter, and skies that keep changing colour. Night gives back the morning. The new day comes. And somehow, so do I.