I once thought of moments
As if they were finite, counted.
The last time I’d sit in the willow tree’s shade
before it was felled
to ground the wings
of beetles and bluebirds.
The last time I’d scramble eggs in my old kitchen
before another family would claim it.
With its rattling oven
and toaster so crammed with crumbs
that it would smoke and wheeze
Like a boiler at the heat.
The last time I’d talk with my grandpa,
who was on his deathbed in a country
8000 miles away.
We didn’t speak much.
Just a greeting,
a wish to stay healthy,
and a promise to visit soon.
A promise that would never be fulfilled.
Because things end abruptly.
Things have changed though.
These days,
I’m so busy that I hardly think at all.
I have even forgotten the color
of my mother’s eyes
Because I’m scared
To watch her age.
I want so badly to have the past again
That I have to treat it
Like it was never there in the first place
Otherwise,
The nostalgia
eats
me
alive.
