Here it is.

I stand before the door to my past.

Memories that cling as a needy dog would,

Barking frantically for me to let him in. 

And I want to let him in,

Believe me.

But I am afraid I might become overdosed in nostalgia.

From outside, the house is just as I remember,

And it already gets to me. 

Strong maroon-colored bricks, 

That have held this house still,

Through strong winds, 

Of all directions,

Thick rain,

Transversal and vertical.

It is even surprising that it held to its place.

But wait,

Now the bricks are worn-down,

Grey and sordid brown spots here and there.

And that stops me.

Many have said nostalgia is an illness,

A kind of fever to the brain,

And to the heart.

And that also stops me from opening the door.

But still here am I, 

As I was before. 

So I turn the old-fashioned key around once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four times!

I sure had it locked about tightly…

And I open the door.

Boom. Flash. Boom.

Explosions of emotions and flashbacks run through my mind.

The burgundy chairs, now covered with dust,

Still stand on the same spot as we left them.

Yes, we. 

My father and mother together at one side of the heavy wooden table.

Me and my sister on the other side.

Eating the “feijoada” we had every Saturday afternoon.

Every single Saturday. 

Until that Saturday morning. 

That fateful doomed morning.

Flashes.

A river.

A bridge.

And a car. 

I cannot handle any more.

I reach toward the door.

Almost touching the circular handle.

Wait.

Yes, I wait and look back.

I take a deep breath.

And I slowly reach again toward the door,

regretting nothing now. 

And I close it behind me, 

But turning the key around now only once.

Nostalgia, I have found,

Is bittersweet.

So if I were a licensed doctor,

I would recommend it at a moderate dose to you,

My patients.