While visiting Dad and Anne for Dad’s birthday, I spotted a basket of Polaroids, kind of electric in the corner. ‘Oooh, photos!’ I said.
Now. I have always known that nostalgia is an actual condition. I embrace it. I use the ache for old times to spur me on every day. My past helps me live in the present.
I’ve been feeling particularly nostalgic recently, more than the sparks that happen all the time, anyway.
Sitting there on Monday morning, I searched my 80s face, wondering if that kid knew she’d go from that brown Levittown living-room to an office/living-room/kitchen in Leith, with a bunch of stories in between.
This was the kid I found in a wicker basket:
Did she know that her heart would break and break and break and mend again? And again? Did she know that someday she’d be writing some words and listening to music while her bearded husband made dinner?
Maybe she did, but if you’d asked her back then she would have said, ‘He will not have a beard!’
The kid in that picture wanted to be a singer. Obviously. A singer with a clean-shaven husband.
And then I grew up.
What makes you nostalgic?
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