Her name is Anemoia. Often, she waits for me at my desk, my couch, my bed. She whispers comfort; the histories of places that fascinate me. She talks of games I never played; trinkets that have been warmed by someone else’s hands; hazy memories I never experienced that resonate all the same. Her name is Anemoia. Sometimes, she follows me wherever I go. Her eyes sparkle at the paintings in the art gallery, jabbering about the artists and their strife. What they suffered to create, circles back to the present day. Old is new and new is old, in her eyes. Her name is Anemoia. Never does she shut up. As I sleep, she’d sit on the headboard, singing her siren song. In my daze, I’m comforted but not enough to truly rest. I could yell at her, but she’d never forgive me. So, I let her sing on, until my alarm rings. Her name is Anemoia. My friend. My enemy. My sister. My stranger. My everything. Sarah Kessell is a writer and poet from …