Why is it that the smallest of things bring back such powerful feelings of fondness?
It only takes a quick glimpse of a photograph, or the familiar lull of an accent to bring me back.
It’s getting harder to tell if the enchantment with my memories is genuine, or if perhaps after years apart I have romanticized experiences and slowly fallen into nostalgic disillusion.
What happens if I go back?
Perhaps I will realize that the colours of purple jacarandas lining the streets are not as jewel-toned or vibrant as I recall them to be.
Will I loose fondness of the sight of red earth tracked inside by bare feet? It is just dirt….
Maybe those warm smiles and kind words in beautiful tones will be extended to me only due to the sound of my own voice- I am from the “greatest country in the world” after all.
Will it become easy to overlook the mothers sitting alongside curbs, children sitting in their laps? I remember them waiting there, covered from the sun by umbrellas while fumes from cars streaming by covered their lungs.
Will I be able to look past the tattered clothes, broken English, and cardboard signs to look into the eyes of a masterpiece?
Will I pass by thousands of rusting tin-roofed homes, and forget that within the skeletal frames and feeble walls lie beating hearts and sharp minds within skeletal and feeble bodies?
Is it worse to forget or to ignore?