When I was very young, grown ups used to tell me that those years that I was living would be the most wonderful of my life. And I would think No way. You can’t possibly be right. The future would always be better, whatever was in store for me, and I couldn’t wait for it to start.
I see their point now. I don’t think I realized at the time what they were really trying to say: that what I was experiencing then would one day very soon be irretrievable.
I will never again come home and hear my mother furiously typing downstairs. I will never walk into the dining room at my father’s house and find all my brothers and sisters sitting at the table in their pajamas, their energy, their kinetic force, dark hair disheveled, my sister still a baby. My father, so very young, the fire in his eyes, his brow furrowed, sitting behind his desk at the library, surrounded by books in piles that were taller than me.
Things have splintered since then, and we’ve all scattered in different directions and built very different lives.
If I had the choice to go back even for a day, an hour, I don’t think I’d want to. I like it so much better here. But I feel anyway that I’ve lost something enormous.
Photo: www.realsimple.com
3 comments:
So very, very true.
pero puedes planear reencuentros/viajes y, por unos instantes que seguro resplandecen, llevar esos recuerdos al teatro (guiñol, que es más bonito) de la realidad.
Me temo que esos viajes lo único que hacen es revolverme la nostalgia (que normalmente vive asentada en mis profundidades.)
Me da mucho gusto verte por aquí.
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