I am Not Nostalgic

By Jonathan Oglesbee

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I am not nostalgic

I don’t keep relics

or store stuff needlessly.

The items that others keep,

yearbooks, photos, and the like

fit in a single box

in the garage,

cardboard, tape, and sharpied “misc.”

I am not nostalgic, but I remember.

I remember.

The sound of my mother

at the piano,

the resonance of deep tones

washing over me.

The laughter of friends,

silly, sarcastic, wild, unfiltered,

inside jokes and going too far.

The exhilaration of standing on stage

preparing to perform.

Stomach churning,

yet yearning to play that first note.

The electricity of my wife’s hand

touching mine for the first time.

It still awakens my spirit

all these years later.

The engulfing darkness

of hearing a diagnosis

that rearranged the room,

swallowed the air,

leaving only the sound

of my own pulse.

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The smell of my grandson’s hair

when I rocked him to sleep — something sacred

I don’t have a name for.

The warmth of my skin

after a day on the beach,

salt dried tight,

sun settling into bone.

Time alters these things.

And I do too.

Light shines brighter

looking back.

Even hard moments

become lessons.

Fear becomes proof

of endurance.

Darkness

becomes contrast.

Memory does not preserve.

It interprets.

And if I have softened the edges,

if I have let the light fall

where the shadow once lived,

that too is evidence.

Evidence that I chose to carry

what helps me live.