Published By: Patrick Lance Guerra
Date Published: January 19, 2025
Time Published: 8:59 AM
Category: Prose
Subject: Nostalgia
Our skins have stretched to accommodate the lengths our bones have grown into, yet we still smile at the thought of our childhood.
It’s strange—how our body insists on growing older, while our memory refuses to follow the same arithmetic. The years have flown fast over our heads, yet our laughter still sounds exactly as if it’s wearing muddy slippers pulled from a puddle.
There are moments when we talk about the past, and I feel the air between us turn into sepia and covered with the smell of sun-filled afternoons. The world feels briefly rewindable, like time is just a film reel I’m allowed to thumb back into the previous scene. And in those moments, I swear nostalgia sneaks behind us like a nosy neighbor—eavesdropping, smiling at the same stories it has heard a million times before.
We have become heavier with all the things the world teaches us to carry: the weight of masked fears, loss, and small hopes. Our hands have become used to the roughness of responsibilities, yet our voices still crack into childish pits of giggles whenever we resurrect stories of scraped knees and sticky palms. We have outgrown so many things—shoes, bedrooms, dreams we deemed too small to live in—but we have never outgrown the versions of ourselves that existed long before our paths grew thorns.
And perhaps this is why the past feels so alive whenever we speak of it. Our childhood keeps tugging at our sleeves like a restless child begging to be remembered.
So, we keep telling the same stories. Because in a world that keeps chiseling us into sharper silhouettes, it is comforting to know that beneath these layers of who we’ve become, there still live the kids with sunburnt smiles and sweaty backs—untouched by time.
It is in these retellings that we learned a warm truth: we did not simply grow older; we expanded into people who still know the way to go home without ever needing to return.
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