With my eyes closed, the warm sun, the biting cold wind and the sound of windchimes swirling around me I am immediately 7 years old, laying on a hammock on the front porch of my cabin. As if it were yesterday, I can feel the net of the hammock pushing against my clothes, I can smell the wooden deck beneath me. I can smell the crisp cold air of being in the forest in elevation. I can hear the wind in the very tops of the pine tees. I can imagine opening my eyes to see the dark blue sky that seems higher than the sky in the city. With no clouds in the sky I can imagine the jet lines criss-crossed throughout the sky. I can feel the warm sun on my skin balancing the cold wind blowing. I can feel my cold fingers pulled inside the arms of my sweatshirt. All in this moment I can almost hear my mom and grandma talking while making sandwiches inside getting ready to call us in. I can hear the sound of my grandpa's van crunching up the gravel of the dirt road as he gets closer. I hear various birds chirping messages through the trees. I can picture the tulips growing in the red dirt along the driveway. All in this moment I feel like I could draw from my memory any sensory detail of those summers at my cabin. The feel of the firewood peeling, the smell of the carpet, the way the TV pointed in the living room, just out of eyes reach at the dinner table. The hard woven rope of the cushions on the wooden chairs. The sound of the forest outside. The sound of the VCR playing old tapes like Heart and Souls. I can even feel how cold the toliet lid is every time I sit down.
There is nothing sweeter and sadder than nostalgia. Drawing on the happiest memories of childhood with the weight of that moment being impossible to recreate.
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