Nostalgia is One Hell of a Drug

going on a trip in my favorite rocket ship

This week has had a weird start. The blues are perpetual and I’ve learned in our many years of companionship that there is no avoiding the inevitable visit. Unpleasantness comes when it wants to. I am only to receive them, and maybe find new ways to experience the sads.

I have a memory that assaulted me out of nowhere. Once, as a girl I read about nostalgia etched in the bones of those who haven’t returned to their hometown—the longing for home, for its taste and smell. For the people and the roads, you know so well. I haven’t been home in a while. I feel the etches begin in my femur.

I miss the smell of rain, but specifically, I miss the smell of the rain in the dirty kitchen of my grandma’s house overlooking the back garden. I miss the vibrant greenery and the cool rainy day breeze. I miss the childish urge to run in the mud. I miss being scolded by the worried elders and told to shower immediately lest I grab a cold from the storm.

They say children bring life to a house. Imagine a trio of rascals, all close in age, causing mayhem underneath our elder’s chins. We had older cousins, of course, they were the cool ones. They went to high school, and owned gaming consoles. All we had were a box of toys, the whole backyard, and our imagination. I wish I could tell you stories about the stories we used to tell each other. But memory has failed me in this aspect. I did not know to write it down then, I had faith I would never forget.

All I have now are snippets. I can hear my cousin’s laughter, how he called me Ate, how he and my sister used to know how to make me cry. I can see the glint of mischief in our eyes, the one that signals a game of impromptu tag is about to commence. I can taste the tartness of the mangoes from our backyard, and the sweetness of chocolate milk. I can feel the summer air and the wound I got from falling off a bike.

I don’t know if it’s home that I miss, the last time I was in my grandma’s house it all looked smaller. I think what I miss is being small enough to get picked up. I miss being small enough that the garage felt like a soccer field. It’s harder to come back to something that lives in the past.

My childhood is locked away in mirages of children laughing inside my grandmother’s house. It tastes of sweet fruits and made-up languages already forgotten. Oh god, I do miss the simple silliness of childhood.

I’m wishing you a week of childlike wonder.

Dhan xx