There's a weird comfort in the nostalgia of coming home.
It always seems to be foggy here now. A walk down the street to the shops that once took ten minutes now takes five, that fence is still there but they painted it over summer and now it sticks out like a sore thumb rather than blending into the bushes swamping it.
You dodge the cracks you know so well on the pavement and notice how many cars are driving past still. It feels more than when you were younger, yet the exact same amount. You count the trees and the distance between lampposts. The house you were convinced was haunted still sits at the end of the road but there's a new coat rack in the porch now, a red coat hanging from it. You remember the way it felt passing that house on Halloween.
You can still taste the sour sweets we bought from the corner shop on our walk home. You've spent months away from this place changing and it's stayed predictably the same. There's a coffee shop now that sells the worst coffee you will ever have and a party shop where you swore there used to be a travel agents. You remember leafing through the travel magazines for a "school project". You still see the way your school skirt didn't quite fit right and the ladders in your tights from catching them on the chairs in the science lab and the scuffed shoes you refused to polish.
You remember so much of this place. But it doesn't remember you.
YOU ARE READING
A strange Nostalgia
PoesíaLife moves pretty fast. You gotta take time to stop and smell the flowers. sometimes the flowers have thorns. but they are still flowers, they still bloom.
