Nostalgia
written by: Carmen Frech Oliveri
I
Let me be nostalgic now
and let me cry,
this once.
I want to think of my days as a child,
of uneven streets engulfed with ripened fruit.
of loss and rain.
Let me
be nostalgic now.
There are people and times that I long to cry about.
II
My mother once said:
“There are two ways to see our lives”
one is the truth,
one is the lie,
the lie looks a pale pink with leaning flowers, delicate butterflies,
the cocoon is a deep brown,
and inside is hope.
The lie is like a dream,
the truth is like a constant drowning.
III
Here is a photograph,
in it I am wearing a green velvet dress with ruffles on the bottom,
a large tree, silver with shiny crystal balls, red and green,
mexican tiles,
a wall of rocks overflowing with cascading water.
I am happy in my white lace socks sitting on a wooden rocker, looking down,
food is being food served in pewter,
red roll ups, old spanish ballads (jose jose) sounding off a boxed stereo.
This,
I will remember exactly this way.
IV
Let me be nostalgic now,
for there is a place with beaches surrounded by sharp rocks,
a boy with a large basket filled with animals made from shells,
my mother is dancing “lambada” with other women,
I do not know how old I am but I am dancing, the breeze feels soft against my cheeks,
there are horses on the sand,
my mothers curls are bouncing up and down as I gaze down at their feet,
the women are happy and smiling…
V
Let me be nostalgic now.
I am sitting on a carriage going through a festival of horses and masks,
there are people walking everywhere,
drinks spilled, leather boots, large brimmed hats,
the horse is wearing glasses, its hooves clanking against the pavement,
we are a family and everyone embraces us,
my mother is smiling, her bracelets dangle from her wrist when she speaks.
The festivals flow in and out of me,
a xylophone playing, beer dripping from everyone’s chin.
I am dizzy with fear.
This,
is my last festival.
VI
Let me be nostalgic now
and let me cry
once,
there are people and times that I long
to cry about.
Here is a photograph,
this is my father
kneeling in a wide field,
petting a large tiger.
My father is wearing a baby blue guayabera shirt,
a handkerchief sticking out of his pocket,
long, flared pants over dark brown moccasins,
his hair is puffy like a sponge,
his mustache is full,
one hand rests boldly over his left hip,
the other firmly on the tiger’s back,
next to my father,
a larger man is smiling.
My father looks at the tiger,
the camera flashes
-CLICK!
my father does not look at the camera,
his gaze remains fixated at the large animal,
he marvels at the stillness,
slowing down his heartbeat,
the soft fur underneath his hands,
the earth below his feet,
the heavy panting of the tiger,
someone chatters in the background,
my father does not know,
he is dying young.
VII
Let me be nostalgic,
and let me cry
once.
I wait
for the truth
or for the lie.
Here is a photograph, my dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, a slight streak of
black over my eyelids, my fingers sitting on a keyboard, I am a middle-aged woman
with two young children,
I do not know how much harder life will get.
I am happy to rejoin the world of poetry, after so many years of silence. We all know that a little bit of ourselves lives and breathes in every single written word. Thank you kindly for reading.
- Nostalgia - December 10, 2024
- Tilted - September 14, 2024
- Today, I Will Die - June 26, 2024
