Nostalgia is a climbing thing. It sits at the waist most times, wrapped in slumber, warm and breathing, but quiet, still. It wakes at the mere thought of a place, blinking sleepy eyes, pulling up to the chest, usually content to stay there and be a steady weight, its flickering heartbeat the eternal repetition - “Remember? Remember? Remember?”
“Remember when we climbed this tree to save that kitten?”
“Remember when mom sent us to our room to wait for a spanking and we waited so long we forgot there was a punishment coming?”
“Remember the delicious raspberries from the bush in our backyard?”
And most times, the nostalgia laughs, a purring, open-mouth sound. Most times, it’s a warmth in the chest and softness at the waist and that’s all.
But sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it sheds the winter coat, the warm softness, becomes scales and claws - not deadly, but not a friend, not anymore. And these times, it climbs to the shoulders and the tail wraps around the throat. Doesn’t squeeze, no, it’s not here to kill you, only to remind you that sometimes even the memories you hold are a danger.
And then it’s not “Remember?” Instead it’s, “I lived here, once.” And then a silence. Because I lived here once, I did, and I was lonely. I was unsure. I couldn’t say if I was loved - I thought I must be, but I couldn’t have been sure. I barely knew myself, let alone anyone else. I was just a child with no place in the world.
“I lived here, once.” Drove these streets, almost always thinking about her and she had no idea. I had no idea, really. Not really. I knew I felt love, but it was just for a friend. We were best friends. And I loved her, and she said she loved me, and it was enough for me. The tail grows tighter, the claws digging into my shoulder. The loneliness, yes. It was there. Omnipresent, it seems. Lonely. A deafening word, thick with silence.
“I lived here, once.” With her, but not with her. Here, and here, and here. Places we migrated, renting separate apartments in the same building, a flimsy facade. Risking everything for each other, pledging love, or something I was sure must be close to it. Close enough, anyway, to ignore all the things that were, all the things that shouldn’t have been. Endless fights, learning to placate her with my body in the way she demanded it, learning to swallow fire, to swallow myself, to turn and turn and turn from the things I so desperately needed because it’s what she wanted. It’s what would save us.
And the tail tightens. The breath comes short. The claws dig in. I didn’t save anything. Not her, not us, certainly not myself. I only stained this place for a hundred miles in every direction. And it doesn’t seem like enough to say “I lived here, once.” I did. But it isn’t enough. There aren’t enough words for the way it reignites the burn wounds when I see that yellow brick house, that brownstone apartment, that street I walked down in below freezing weather, wanting to disappear, but getting back into her car when she came looking anyway. Disappearing in a different way, I suppose.
“I lived here, once” and I touch the burning house, hot in the sun, a flat palm, the claws deep in my neck. “I lived here, once, and I think I died here too.”
And that’s what it is sometimes. Nostalgia. It’s a grave that comes with you. Sometimes, it’s a different way to die.
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