Nostalgia

Perfect vacuum lines, transparent floor runners, plastic-covered couches + loveseats and sticky thighs in the dead center of August.

Me sprawled out in front of my grandma’s floor model TV and The Days of our Lives playing in black in white as my kindergarten self contemplates melancholy.

Our friends loving on us from the other side of dinged up screen doors and requests to make it back to the front porch before the street lights came on.

Small brown hands clinched around small brown paper bags filled to the brim with the glory acquired at the penny candy store.

Did I ever mention how much your voice grounds me? And how I’ll always find a home there?

The warmest and softest part in the crook of your neck.

That smell. You know the one. The one that brings forth your most ordinary yet joyous memories and instantly transports you to a different space and time. The smell that hits you as soon as you walk through the frame of the house and the one that clings to your clothes on the ride back to whatever other place you call home.

Sunday. Chicken parts seasoned at 7 a.m. waiting to be fried after salvation has been offered and the doors of the church have closed. The way it waits and longs to nourish you. The deep naps after all parts of your being have been satisfied. What it offers and never demands.

A Town with Brown water. The House (Lord-Saunders). Venice Boulevard. The exit for Howell Mill Road off I-75 N. Stevie Wonder, Anita Baker, The Boblo Boat and summertime Belle Isle in the 90s.