I could not resist the temptation of opening those drawer slots. In the tips of my fingers, I knew, without immense force, I would be able to open them one by one. I looked around the room as if i have not inhabited the tiny space for fourteen years--yet I have not. The faded country green paint that the painters patiently brushed against the rough walls the summer of '96 started to peel off, which reminded me I've been gone for too long. My smell already blended in with the succession of the seasons and vintage through out the years. Drawn pictures of houses remained pasted; it seemed as if they were fading away as well, along with the cheap, hardware pigments. I was glad to be back yet nothing seemed to have stayed the same. The same story goes outside of those four walls. My grandmother, the woman who was there, strong like a bamboo plant, not swayed by much of anything, has aged drastically; I had to talked loudly and stayed to her close-by as I thought to myself "at least she still remembers me". The once artistically tended garden in the front yard rottened like no one had cared. The town altered, right before my eyes, so small and lifeless, where neighbors kept to themselves, and dogs stopped barking. It was not at all negative, however; I guess I was looking for reasons not to stay. I was mulling over bitter thoughts of the place which sheltered me until I was fourteen. I didn't like the idea that the stimuli of the people I loved, the places I used to ride my cousin's bike to... had moved on--with or without me.

Everything is changing. I am missing. People are moving. I remain nostalgic and I write.

Labels: nostalgia

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