Sunday, October 03, 2010
Nostalgia
Forearms left short by her t-shirt, her skin crispened under the early-spring sun light in a green park sprinkled with iPods and picnics. Girls chatting on a bench, boys going over their jeans shopping, King St strollers returning to their Camperdown homes. The book balancing above her face was ignored while she schemed to inhale the scent of the burnt skin later in the day just before she would stand up to leave the park. Up there with her kindergarten teacher's perfume and her mother's bolognese sauce, it was a scent that brought about a nostalgia that suited the occasion. Just this once she let it burn rather than protect it from the horrors of premature ageing. Like any other nostalgia that disappears the more you arouse it. The same reason her mother never plays her Abba CDs, yet adores the music. The same reason she refuses to try on the Issey Miyake in her sister's dressing room. Nostalgia is for special occasions.
When does the time come for her mother to play her CDs on repeat for 7 days in a row. When will Issey Miyake become boring. When will her skin no longer burn but just warm up like the dead elastic it would be? When will the cool breezes of early autumn arouse the dread of July rather than dress her in her primary school uniform and plant her feet at the start of the footpath winding from the school gate to her kindergarten classroom where lies a 4-second memory, a best friend, and the Issey Miyake on her white haired and gentle teacher?
She smells her left hand. The smell is there. Autumn and spring sunshine burns. Just this once. ¶ 11:49
Forearms left short by her t-shirt, her skin crispened under the early-spring sun light in a green park sprinkled with iPods and picnics. Girls chatting on a bench, boys going over their jeans shopping, King St strollers returning to their Camperdown homes. The book balancing above her face was ignored while she schemed to inhale the scent of the burnt skin later in the day just before she would stand up to leave the park. Up there with her kindergarten teacher's perfume and her mother's bolognese sauce, it was a scent that brought about a nostalgia that suited the occasion. Just this once she let it burn rather than protect it from the horrors of premature ageing. Like any other nostalgia that disappears the more you arouse it. The same reason her mother never plays her Abba CDs, yet adores the music. The same reason she refuses to try on the Issey Miyake in her sister's dressing room. Nostalgia is for special occasions.
When does the time come for her mother to play her CDs on repeat for 7 days in a row. When will Issey Miyake become boring. When will her skin no longer burn but just warm up like the dead elastic it would be? When will the cool breezes of early autumn arouse the dread of July rather than dress her in her primary school uniform and plant her feet at the start of the footpath winding from the school gate to her kindergarten classroom where lies a 4-second memory, a best friend, and the Issey Miyake on her white haired and gentle teacher?
She smells her left hand. The smell is there. Autumn and spring sunshine burns. Just this once. ¶ 11:49
