Nostalgia on my Mind

The memory always finds me this time of year. Long ago though it may have been, it’s still as clear to me as the freshly fallen snow was white that night, all crunchy and frozen under our boot-strapped feet. 

It was the first time I had been out of the house in days. I was coming off of a brutal bout of strep throat and an accompanying case of cabin fever. The air held an uncharacteristic silence, penetrated only by the rumble of the El track above us as we quietly made our way down the street.

The flakes fell soft that night, spiraling down through the muted glow of the street lamps as we walked hand-in-hand; the hazy orange thrown off by the lights adding a particular magnificence to our real-life snow globe. 

We were younger then, not even 18 months into marriage. It was just the two of us, and we inhabited a high-ceilinged, exposed-brick loft in the South Loop of Chicago. Those days spent at 16th and State were punctuated by Bon Iver listening and book reading, party throwing and couch cuddling. Simpler times to say the least. 

I hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days. Hungry as I was for both food and the outside world, we set out on foot heading North. Our destination was the burger joint just up the street, but we took our time getting there. The chill was biting, but the beauty breathtaking. It was as though this frosty Chicago night belonged to us and us alone.

***

I’ve often wondered why it comes to me as it does: this memory, replaying in mind’s eye year after year—the details as sharp as the day I lived it. 

Maybe it’s because I was taking in the scene with a fresh set of senses after being holed up for far too long. Maybe the magic of the snowfall had excited those senses, causing a sonic overload of sorts. Was it the meal I ate? Those first bites of solid food so good they’re beyond forgetting?

Perhaps it was simply one of those nights that, for no particular reason, you’re bound to remember forever, common and ordinary though it is, yet distinct and important in its own way. 

Whatever the reason, I’m glad for the memory. It warms my soul on chilly nights, filling my heart with gladness and my mind with nostalgia.

After all, those just-the-two-of-us times are no more, and thrilled though we are, I still catch myself daydreaming about them—the charming days of a uniquely sweet season that can no longer be touched, only felt.

It feels odd sometimes, thinking about how life used to be. It’s funny that something that was once all we ever knew is now so foreign and, at times, hard to recall. I suppose, however, this is how all of life will be: the familiarity of today traded for a future that was formerly known only in dream and in prayer. 

I’ve decided to count it an annual Christmas gift, this winter memory of mine. It’s trappings are ones of sentiment and romance, and, like all good presents, its effect is long-lasting. I don’t ever know which day it’s going to arrive, but when it finally does, I like to unwrap it slowly, take it in from every angle. 

And that’s what I’m doing tonight.

We may be far removed from that snowy city night, but it’s never not near. Because my heart won’t let my mind forget what it needs to remember from time to time.