Poetry by Katherine Llave

Edited by Naomi Acosta

Nostalgia was once called a disease.
An ailment, or ache for what can no longer be.
At times a sharp, stabbing sensation of pain
Other times a hollow longing to return once again.
A longing to return to a distant time–
A time not forgotten but long left behind.
A time before the vicious storms of the present,
A time when ignorance seemed more pleasant.
When one could bask in childlike simplicity,
When the world shone brighter, with a calming lucidity.
The sweet realm of potential held in one’s hand,
Before the swift clock began to mark its demands.
When one could exist with so few expectations,
Without the whole world watching with anticipation.
A time without a blizzard of thoughts clouding your mind
A time when the future seemed to be kind…
The longing lodges in perpetual stays,
Causing acute craving for earlier days.

This incurable longing we know today
Has a history of suffering and intense dismay.
Once thought a physical or spiritual affliction
Distinguished from being a homebound conviction.
Not tied to a certain place or location
But rather a deep desire for a past sensation.
And it is with this past in mind that I say
How this affliction has struck me heavily today.

I miss the little girl I used to know—
I constantly ask myself, “where did she go?”
These questions dig furiously into the back of my head
Making me wonder if that young girl is now dead.
But etched in my memory with fruit-scented glitter pens
Are hopeful markings reminding me this isn’t the end.
When I catch the scent of a Third-Grade Spring breeze
And feel the cool shade of green under the trees
The trees of the past, the pulling out grass—
It all comes back to me.
A white dandelion blown, and wished upon
The faint glow of the sun into my window at dawn.
An old shirt of mine that my little sister is now wearing,
The knit blanket we’ve kept for so long that it’s tearing.
The church choir melodies my dad sings on Sundays
The scar carved in lightning still shows on my face.
My mother’s cracked hands, revealed in my own—
My ever-changing shadow reminds me I’m not alone.

While the current proceedings may seem more mundane,
These memories may keep us from going insane.
Watching faded film we’ve held in our heads
Flashbacks reappear when we’re in our beds.
There’s a beauty to the painful sensation we feel
That makes life more seen, more vibrant, more real.
Nostalgia remains a malady for which there’s no cure
But maybe it won’t always be an affliction to endure.