I’ve written before about the collection of memories I have that would serve to torture me if I was ever kidnapped and kept in a shipping container for several weeks. They are cozy home memories, foreign adventures, and moments of heart-racing tenderness. When I think of these things I feel the warmest kind of sorrow that wraps you up in a comfortable blanket and hold you until you fall asleep. They are wonderful memories. And they are over now.
And it’s not that they can't be revisited or even reattempted. Every Sunday dinner is a representation of my wonderful childhood. I could certainly fly back to Scotland or Greece or New Zealand and stand where I stood once before. But whatever it is about a moment in time that stands out amongst all the memories and days and breaths of your life is much to specific and undefinable to ever recreate. That’s why I love nostalgia.
When for a split second your brain short-circuits and pauses on a sensation from years ago and you feel fourteen years old again, sitting in homeroom on a cloudy morning or you’re twenty-three starting a new job. These moments aren't really even memories but your brain forgets where you are in your story and flips through a few pages to find the present. For a moment you do go back in time and its usually sickening, wistful, or exhilarating. And you can’t hold on to it either. Your brain quickly remembers the page you’re on and drops you right back into the present.
I feel warm when I think about the holidays and rainy days and lazy dock days. Oh but I'm a sucker for morning light coming through an airplane window. I love morning on an overnight flight. The real morning, not the simulated one. People slowly open the shades and the flight attendants fill carafes with hot coffee. You’re almost there. It’s so hopeful and joyful and sleepy.
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