Happy Easter to every one of my followers! If this day is one of chocolate & family, of praising the wonders of the true meaning of Easter in the Church, or just another Sunday to you, I hope you have a good day, whatever you’re doing.
As any of you who follow my poems will know, we have started the spring cleaning in our house. There’s been a lot of clearing out & cleaning, &it is nice to have things fresh & shining, & to sweep Winter away for the moment. Today, after finishing an assignment (yes, I got one done!), I continued cleaning out drawers in my room. I found several nostalgic items where I hadn’t expected them. You know those items that make you smile at the memory, but choke you at the same time? Those kind of nostalgic items. So today for my NaPoWriMo, I’m looking at nostalgia, at the emotions that these items provoked in me today. This is my poetry offering for the day. I hope you enjoy. & once again, happy Easter.In the lining of drawers, and hidden in pages of books are memory traps, waiting to snare me with a loop of the past. Spring cleaning brings them forth every year, never seeming to be the same items, but pulling forth the same tides of nostalgia like my beloved seashore, sending them crashing over me like powerful waves. In one drawer I find a notebook, stuffed & brimming with cartoon strips cut from newspapers. My grandmother cut these daily funnies for more than a year, filling the copy pages with glued clippings, just to make me laugh. In another, I fall into a different memory of her, finding a bookmark for which she pressed flowers from our garden, and trapped them on cardboard with clear plastic. I show my mother, smiling through a lump in my throat, & we realise these tiny dried blooms must be fifteen years old. I continue with my cleaning, & turn up small objects, an old scarf of my uncles, a book of poetry that he had written, a necklace he gifted me twenty years ago. & then, the one I have been expecting, a feeling of dread & anticipation as I turn up my grandfathers cigarette case, a silver one, that we had engraved for him so long ago. I hold these things in my hands, press them to my chest & force myself to smile, though tears lie just behind my itching eyes. These are my memories, my life & legacy in tiny nondescript items, that mean nothing to anyone but me. Grateful for these memories, I pack them away again, setting nostalgia traps for myself the next time I empty & rearrange my room.