Tacoma nostalgia smells like rainwater and Spongebob 

popsicles, trading friendship bracelets for silly bandz, running

mud-stained fingers along strawberry-pink hair tips, swirling 

tongues at English syllables, its foreign twists and edges,

Wednesday pronounced like Wed-ness-day for tomorrow’s spelling test.

It feels like midnight folktales about siblings and hungry tigers, like

shuffling stuffed animals into large boxes, kissing

eomma goodnight and hugging appa sweet dreams, chasing 

fireflies at the golf course, falling to laughter.

Finding familiarity in English’s twists and edges, sneaking

a last glance at the sullen sky, how imperfectly perfect it is.

Tacoma memories are simplicity, 

as if youth is everlasting.