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Nostalgia gazes at the lava lamp from the garage sale,
The hot, red-popsicle-dripping-on-sticky-hands day
The spend-wisely 5 dollars from her dad,
Bobbling shapes drift over closed eyelids the first night.
Nostalgia pumps her legs on the swing in the back yard,
Tattered Little House on the Prairie book still tucked under the slide,
Bucket of long since abandoned mud stew planted in the dirt,
Rusting bike leaned up against the side of the house.
Nostalgia sits cross legged on the bedroom floor,
flicks through construction paper photo albums,
giggles at his face, her pose,
shaky hands brushing and thighs touching under the table.
Nostalgia screams the lyrics to old songs
Songs that sound like thinking she’s in love in seventh grade
Or running away from home as a freshman.
Songs that sound like the first time she slammed her door on her mom
Or a red cup gripped in a basement.
Nostalgia writes letters on scrap paper, in notebook margins,
To people whose numbers she’s lost,
To family members who don’t turn up to dinner anymore,
To people she taped on her wall at 12 years old.
Letters that look like, “Did you ever make varsity?”
“Has your mom gotten her promotion yet?”
“Do you know I still write stories about you?”
“I don’t dye my hair anymore,”
“I’ve stopped stuttering,”
“I want to read your poems again,”
Letters that sound like, “I’ll always save you a seat,”
Or a swing, or a cardstock page,
with a clear view of dusty, pink, lava blobs.