Tag: nostalgia

Salt.

It’s the salt,

in the air,

your memory,

everywhere.

It’s on my tongue,

in my hair,

your memory,

everywhere.

It’s in my cells,

a part of every smell,

your memory,

everywhere.

It runs in my blood,

coats my lungs,

your memory,

everywhere.

–S.

Nostalgia Avenue.

If you ever find yourself on Nostalgia Avenue,

know that I still think about you, I do.

If you ever find yourself on Nostalgia Avenue,

know that I still dream about you, I do.

If you ever find yourself on Nostalgia Avenue,

know that I’m still on you, like tattoos.

still like sky and ocean, blue on blue.

–S.

Half-Truths.

I tell people that living without you never stopped

or changed a damn thing.

I tell people that living without you never stopped

me from having a song to sing.

I tell people that living without you never prevented

a fling.

I tell people that living without you never made me

not want to wear another ring.

I tell people what they want to hear

and the lies take off like wings.

I don’t tell them that it changed everything.

–S.

Bar Lights.

The bar lights make it alright.

The shame is washed away by the night.

I don’t take it personal even though you speak in slights.

I close my eyes really tight,

and it feels almost like sunlight.

–S.

Ashtray Mouth.

I hate the ashtray taste of your mouth,

but I love your arm around me in the bar booth.

I hate the way it feels like I’m giving you my youth,

but then I forget I hate it with vermouth.

I hate the way you think I tell half-truths,

but I’ve never been that smooth.

–S.

Warm Whiskey.

The wind makes the trees dance,

and my hair frizzy.

I wonder if you ever miss me.

The wind makes the trees dance,

and my hair frizzy,

why didn’t you ever kiss me?

The wind makes the trees dance,

and my hair frizzy,

you still burn like warm whiskey.

The wind makes the trees dance,

and my hair frizzy,

it’s all starting to hit me.

–S.

Strength.

Look at what you did.

I was just a stupid kid.

I let you hold me.

I let you grope me.

I thought it was love,

but it was just lonely.

I let you hurt me.

I let you burn me.

I thought it was love,

but I was wrong.

All along, it was making me strong.

–S.

Laughing on an old brown leather couch.

From August 2014.

One of my dad’s favorite comedians has always been Robin Williams. For as long as I can remember – I have been obsessed with my dad’s laughter.

I think it soothes me. It lets me know that in that moment everything is good. We are all safe. Whenever I have the chance to snag my dad away so we can watch a comedy or a stand-up special – I do just that. When he laughs really hard he makes a lot of movements and eventually it just all becomes one big wheezy sound. Sometimes he laughs so hard that he cries. And we spend the next few days repeating our favorite lines to each other and laughing all over again.

That smile. That laugh. Two of my favorite images in my short lifetime.

Today, we watched a Robin Williams stand-up, followed by an interview. My mother and I on one couch, my dad on the other, and my younger brother passed out on their bed. I watched beyond the images moving on the screen. I looked for small remarks made by Robin, that today, mean a hell of a lot more than they did years ago. Words showing the darkness that lived within him as much as he worked at making others happy and full of laughter.

I realize that he has left us with all of these gems to assist in our laughter for years to come. He is still here. The man that he let us know. All of the different masks that we were privy to.

I also look to the man to my right, my father, and feel the warmth of comfort deep in my belly.

Things are okay.

They could be better.

They could be worse.

But we are here together. Alive. Breathing. Laughing. Smiling. Eating. Drinking.

I make a promise to myself today to pay more attention. To the underlying message in the words spoken by those I love the most in this bittersweet moment. I will not just listen, but hear. I will not just watch, but see. I will not just say, but do. I make a promise to look beyond what they think their eyes are telling them. To see the pain. The dark. The hurt.

I also know that it has never been more clear that when my mother and father no longer inhabit this earth physically with one another but with me – that their words, their laughter, their faces, and their movements will live in

my heart,

my soul,

my mind,

my bones,

my cells.

I will always remember all of the times we laughed so hard that we cried on the scratched up, with years, brown leather couches in the living room.

–S.