A Haunt of Nostalgia
Before I begin, I need to give my thanks to Stephen King for the train of thought that arose while reading It recently for the second time. He describes the town of Derry as a haunt, listing the different definitions of the word haunt, one of which is a place where animals feed.
The past haunts.
Memories ache. Simple ones like thinking of a Currier and Ives print being reminiscent of childhood, where you could open the door in your imagination and step through into the delight of the winterscape print with scenes of snow, dogs, kids, magic, and wonder. Most of all, the feeling that this could last forever—this delightful joy of living in the moment, no worries about tomorrow, only unending wonder at what magic would happen next, that feeling of lightness in the chest, a sense of freedom, oneness with the world. Oh, how memories ache; how memories haunt.
They are the places I go to feed.
I think it’s just something that naturally happens in middle age – certain locked-away memories of childhood begin to resurface, murky at first in the turbid waters of my mind. As I go about my daily routine, whether reading, working, shopping, or engaging in whatever random activity that occupies my time, a little ripple begins to stir within me, driven by the plop of some stone that has come loose from the bank of the river of memory. It’s as if fragments of my past, long buried beneath the sediment of routine life, are calling out for recognition. I make a brief note of the sensation, the subtle tug at my consciousness, but it’s not until it gathers momentum that it transforms into a veritable landslide of recollection. Suddenly, I find myself fully immersed in the clearwaters of my youth, where vivid images and sounds from the past wash over me. I can hear the laughter of friends, the sweetness of sun-drenched afternoons, and the innocence of my younger self.
But we all forget, don’t we? How many adults fully remember their childhood—the freedom, the awareness, the wonder? Maybe we’re supposed to forget, tucked away in the folds of time. How could we possibly attend to the responsibilities of adulthood if we still behave like kids, losing ourselves in daydreams and fantastical play? Ha! Perhaps it would be easier if we had a better sense of wonder, of magic, of imagination—more in touch with the possibility that surrounds us every day.
That’s really it, isn’t it?
Possibility.
As children, possibilities are all around us; we’re open to them regardless of fear, eagerly chasing after shadows and constructing worlds of our own design. We believe everything and anything is possible, from flying to far-off lands to befriending talking animals. But adulthood—what is possible then? Magic? Miracles? Absolutely not, that’s fiction, relegated to storybooks and childhood fantasies. Or is it? It seems in childhood, magic is a fact, a palpable force that colors our experiences with vibrancy. Maybe the magic is real, and the adults who have forgotten (the faces of their fathers. Thankee sai, Stephen King) can still touch that magic; all it takes is perhaps a fleeting moment of nostalgia or a familiar scent wafting through the air.
Because I remember the smells, the air, the texture, the freshness of spring in the Adirondacks, where every breeze carries whispers of possibility. It isn’t just a memory but a place I can still step into, still walk about, touching 1987 like it was yesterday. These are the places I haunt, where echoes of laughter linger and where my imagination took flight. These are the places I go to feed, rejuvenating my spirit and reminding me that though the years may stack upon me like leaves in autumn, the essence of childhood and its endless possibilities are always within reach.
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