Nostalgia

I sit and stare into my screen, listening to Tip-toe Dancer by Karen Marie Garrett. The guy living upstairs pounds away at his keyboard but all I hear is the beat because he wears headphones when he plays. Fireworks, for god knows why, explode somewhere in the distance. Otto lays next to my leg, shaking (boom, shake; boom, shake). Luna walks to the porch, barks, I say, "No!", and she returns to my bed.

Right now I should be happy--I got my job, the great work, great pay, great benefits job--and I am happy, but a bit sad too. I am grateful for the opportunity to work doing what I love. To receive this job is a much needed break. But it's times like these, times of change: good or bad, when I think of the past, of family and friends and places I have lived and experienced. Times of change bring it all back.

I am thinking about my dad and how I should call him and share the news. How I should have called him right away. But, honestly, I didn't think of it. And that's what makes me sad, that I didn't think to call my dad first, like I thought of calling my mom. My dad. I think of how his hair used to stand on end when he was mad--what little hair he had on his bald spot--and how huge his hands are, like his mom, Grandma Stoppler. His deep laugh and how he walks crooked when his back is out. I think of him living alone in Alberta, living in the home he always wanted to build, a cabin. I wonder what he's doing right now. It's been nearly three years since I have seen my dad. I love him, miss him, want to share my news with him. I wish we could do it in person and he could tell me he loves me and rub my back and say, "My girl" like he used to.

It's times of change that bring back the bittersweet memories, the romanticized ponderings.

I think of work at the lab in Missouri, of Doug, the pot-bellied native Missourian who always said I called him "a fat man." Liar. I wrote an essay about Doug and his family and their tradition of hunting, of teaching each generation how to provide food for the family. He talked about how the tradition changed over the years and became more of a sport than a necessity. He told me about his friend and how they have recorded hundreds of stories on tape together. I miss Doug.

But Doug isn't the only one: at the lab, everyone was a "Doug" in their own way. And I miss them all. My boss, the kind-hearted man who, at first, was difficult to pin down, to get a vibe from, but who, in the end, was easy to approach, thoughtful, and kind (and, he would like to say, funny). My crew, Anne, Lynne, and Steve. I think about them nearly every day. And it's not that I want to move back or recreate that experience; it's just difficult to make the change.

Karen Marie Garrett's Allure of Sanctuary plays, a melodic piano rhythm, as Dave carries Otto outside for his before-bed-pee. And then he takes Luna out while I carry Otto to bed. My little family.

Nostalgia, such a human experience, a universal feeling. My little red dictionary defines nostalgia as "A bittersweet yearning for things of the past." The definition itself is poetry just as is, perhaps, the "yearning" of nostalgia.