Nostalgia
We’d dug out the photos
from a closet full of old things,
the boxes vaguely dusty,
and decided to pay attention
to the past. We started
at the beginning, our beginning,
the Seventies, when life
seemed simple in a Bronx
six-floor walkup, no air-con,
roaches holding it all together,
and our future lay in passing
exams and searching for
impossible jobs. Yet
we packed summer suitcases,
traveled across oceans
wearing smiles and bell-bottoms,
ever hopeful. Now we are the age
our parents were then, older even,
The pictures made you sad.
I put them back in the closet,
organized and boxed
in chronological order, glad
that we have made it this far
together, while you sit in your recliner,
untouched by my small smile.
We try not to think about
how time goes by in a whisper
when we aren’t even listening.
Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, Agenda, Gradiva, ParisLitUp and other jourtnals. Her seventh and latest book of poetry is EDGES.
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