The Nostalgia of My Memories

As a child, I would hide under giant trees, where the sun doesn’t shine. Where the heat would reside and the cold was a dream that was seen on TV, with the beautiful white snow Disney Channel would show me. I came from playing Hide and seek, with many family members I would remember getting in trouble with. There are one too many memories where pain plagued the day because I would either reopen old wounds by falling on the rocky street or falling on the sharp edges of an escalator. I come from the many scars that inhabit my knees, my legs, my arms, and my forehead. To that one story I don’t remember and cherish; I come from a father that seemed more of a dream than a reality; the story of a chocolate man who resembled the warmth of home. I come from the many smells that came after cleaning the house; the Fabuloso purple bottles that smelled like flowers and many chemicals I couldn’t name at such a young age; the bleach smell that came from the bathroom; and the shiny, polished white floors that were always cleaned to perfection. White became my favorite color, aside from the radiant red, just like those red lipsticks I used to steal from my mother’s collection. Yet white was the color that exuded light like those dark nights when the vibrant bulbs would give out because electricity was lacking, but it always took mere minutes for the soothing lights to come on. Unless I was at my aunt’s house where the lights would go off and not return for hours, however, it was my family that exuded the light instead.

I came from the family that gave me tight hugs, where the sarcasm ran fast through the air, and elephants were nowhere in sight. My family was everything I came from. My grandmother with the endless nagging, yelling at us, the young, to stop playing around; threatening us with punishments if we didn’t behave because we were getting too loud or pushing the limits too hard, as a child that was anything but normal. I come from the rich taste of Christmas; the green, blue, and red that would reflect upon the perfectly clean, white floors because Christmas always came with a tree that appeared to be a fairy tale in existence, also, Christmas came with many sounds. The jingles would float through the air, the chorus coming out of the speakers were a sweet melody combined with guitars, drums, and the bad tunes that came from my family’s mouths, although we weren’t artist we all sang in different tunes webbed together by a beautiful Christmas.

As I grow older, everything changes but my memories always stay with me. The trees that run by me as I rush to class every morning remind me of the aching on my knees and arms. Christmas brings the ghost of a tree that is rather short in comparison to before. No longer is my house full of sounds, music blaring on the speakers, no longer is everyone at my house. Now, I ask myself… Where am I from? And I answer, from the nostalgia my memories bring



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