A Quick Prose

I admit it. I am a fan of nostalgia.
I love the old memories, which bring me back to old times
and better times.
I love it when I catch a whiff of something;
a smell from somewhere
or a whiff of something so simple as say,
a honeysuckle bush
and how this reminds me of a childhood memory.

The honeysuckles . . .
This remind me of being in a backyard
and trying to build a clubhouse.
I admit that much of my younger days were crazy.
But even the crazy days had their fun times.
And I admit to this too.
I admit to the smells of old colognes from the times,
which, even the mention of them
brings me back to fun times in my youth,
which I thought would last forever. 

Age is funny. Yes, it is.
Age is also inevitable and eventual.
Our youth is this small window of time.
And as for our memories,
these are the windows
they are the portholes in which we can look through
and go back.
This is how we keep ourselves young.
This is how we keep old things alive,
like an old toy we found from our childhood
and we resurrect them with a smile. 

I admit it. I love nostalgia.
I love the memories of late night diner trips
or the after hours spots we’d go to
I remember us after howling all night long;
running around like a bunch of young lunatics.
We sat at tables and and at White Castles.
We laughed about the night that we just lived through,
as if nothing in the world could ever be better.

I remember the younger days
And the days of sleepovers and blanket forts.
I remember trying to stay up as late as we could.
I remember trying to stay up late enough
to watch all of Saturday Night Live,
which was a much different show than it is now.

Then of course,
there were the sleepovers when we watched
the scary movies. Those were good;
the slasher films, the creature features,
and the every-so-often 3D specials
and the crazy glasses we wore to see them.

I have memories of riding my bicycle.
I ride through my neighborhood.
I remember the first warmth of springtime
and riding around my town;
as if everything thawed and life resumed.
I remember there was a home with a backyard
and an old Italian woman dried her sheets on a clothesline.
God, I bet they smelled so fresh and clean
I see this as a memory of a great past.
I see this as wholesome.
The world was certainly very different back then.
Then again  so was I.
Or better yet, so were we. 

I am a fan of nostalgia. I am a fan of memory.
I am a fan of the triggers that hit
especially when I hear an old song and suddenly,
I can remember exactly where I was during the summer of 1991.

To be more specific, there is a song from Lisa Stansfield
called Been Around The World.
I remember this from a time when I was coming home.
This was after being away from things for a while.

Mom had just come to pick me up.
There was a surge of hope that pumped through my veins;
as life was brand new (and it was to some degree).

I remember the hot summers in Queens.
This is when I worked on Archer Avenue.
The neighborhood was not the greatest.
I know this for sure. I know why too.
And I was part of that culture at the time.
But even with this being true;
I remember the little old Dominican man
he stood on the corner with his cart and shaved ice.

I used to get the Pina Colada.
I remember him; the old man with the shaved ice cart
he dressed in white shorts, a white shirt and a white hat.
Ah, what you could get back then
for only a dollar
it was amazing . . .