Too much reminds me of something else lately. The slanted winter light; the musty smell emanating from the abandoned buildings I pass, or the old books I rummage through in stalls at the market; the parks all barren trees and lush carpets of dark green grass; rain spots on the living room window—dog hair on the floor. Everything is a short circuit—a crossed wire. One turn of a corner and I'm standing not in a park on the Rio Tejo but in another park, on another river—the Mondego, in Coimbra, or the Susquehanna in Harrisburg. It is still March, end of winter, and the long dark arms of trees frame a pale sky, the too green grass remains, as do the birds and those moments of the day where the breeze lies down and the sun is warm and it's easy to believe spring is near, and it's just as
Well said. I’ve have been feeling this lately. Nostalgia so strong it can almost be crippling. Life isn’t measured by time, but by memories and familiarity of the past.
Well said. I’ve have been feeling this lately. Nostalgia so strong it can almost be crippling. Life isn’t measured by time, but by memories and familiarity of the past.