my life has always been tethered to a sense of nostalgia i could never quite account for. these days i like to think that it runs in the blood, some deep immigrant longing, the loss of something visceral and unnamed. the way some people's bones ache before rain, my sternum presses against my skin and a weight inside my stomach pulls me closer to the ground as if something in my life were about to come pouring down. but nothing gathers on the horizon; i've always suspected that what i feel is my body pulling me back towards a half-remembered dream, trying to shape my thoughts into something it has known before, something distant but real.

lately, i find myself reaching back. i watch the teenagers leaning against their cars on cool summer nights and children riding their bikes on empty concrete roads. i drive my car with the windows rolled down, playing the radio, singing along loudly to the songs i know. i snap my gum, dress up, dress down, and let my thoughts wander. in my mind, i want to be 14, 15, 16, anything but a 23 year old with too many responsibilities and a wavering sense of duty. i wish i were 5 or 6, round cheeks and scraped knees picking squash blossoms off the spiraling vines in my grandparent's yard, playing make-believe on an abandoned boiler.

but not quite. there is something deeper but i just don't know.