Second Hand Nostalgia

The street lights shined through the shadows that rested on the road. My windows fogged with condensation and second hand nostalgia as we rolled down the streets. Each turn my father knew like the back of his hand. They had been embedded deeply within the layers of his memory from a routine that hadn’t been followed for decades, yet still remained. The large number of years it survived could only be counted with the dates scrawled on the backs of old photographs.

The brick sidewalk was the path to school. The schoolyard, now silent and empty, once fizzled with the joyful shrieks of children. I could see through the windows classrooms, classrooms that once brimmed with eraser shavings and complaints of too much homework. Across the parking lot were stained glass windows and cathedral bells. Missing math for holy mass they would cross the cement for church.

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