Sin Fronteras Spring 2018 Sin Fronteras 2018 | Page 35

Recipe for Nostalgia
Daniel Hernandez
Hot, dry air blows through the cloudless night sky, and an uncomfortable
heat presses down as the city around me moves on like it always has. As I lie on
the tiled roof my hand reaches out behind me as if to run my fingers through
snow, but instead it is stopped by the touch of dirty concrete. Three miserable
stars and half a grimy moon are all that light up the sky, that and the endless
sea of lights that covers the ground as far as I can see. With a sigh I lie back and
look at the dark sky, searching for stars I cannot see, countless stars that I used
to know so well. I feel a tear escape my eye and run down my cheek. I sit there
in incomplete darkness and try to remember. And I do remember, but those
memories are starting to get blurry as I start forgetting details and names. I
remember his pale skin and his green eyes, I remember seeing him every day,
but I do not remember his name. I remember her name, I remember seeing her
for the first time and realizing she was beautiful, but now I don’t remember the
color of her eyes or shade of her lips or the sound of her laugh, all that’s left is
the ghost of a feeling.
Three hundred and seventy days ago I sat on another roof, with different
people, someplace else. I looked at the sky and saw more stars than I could ever
possibly count, I ran my fingers through fresh snow and saw faces I knew
perfectly. I looked outwards and only saw white mountain tops, untouched and
beautiful. If any tears escaped my eyes they were tears of joy.
Now a year has passed and I sit on a tile roof on a warm February night. I
search for things that aren’t there any more and try to remember things I have
forgotten. The past has made me who I am, but now all that’s left from it is a
recipe for nostalgia and blurry memories. So I lie back on the hard tiled roof
and close my eyes. As blackness drowns out everything another tear escapes
my eye, as I grieve for the slow death of the past.
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