the opposite of nostalgia

photo-5

Early in the morning and I can hear the crickets. I can hear birds, but I can’t tell what kind. It’s only August, but already some of the cottonwood trees are losing their leaves.
Cottonwood.
Soybeans.
Early morning, but someone is out walking. I can see their bright green shirt across the lake.
Every day the cardinals come and for a few days we saw an Oriole.
Rose of Sharon.
Bud light.
We ate ribs at a bar and for the next two nights had leftovers for dinner.
We went to Beardstown for the ribs. Otherwise I stayed away. I would like to have seen Bobby Wells and Penny and Christy and Pete, but I didn’t want to think about when I lived there. I didn’t want to think about being 16. Whatever nostalgia is, I have the opposite of it.
My dad liked to go out on the lake in his boat, but now we only look at the water from the deck. There are chiggers in the grass and the dock is rotten.
A hummingbird flies right up to me, flies within arm’s reach, looking, and then it zips away.


2 thoughts on “the opposite of nostalgia

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