Nostalgia For A Week Ago

So many activities in the last few weeks suddenly assume significance because they were the very last time we did them, perhaps the last time we will have done them for a long, long while, and possibly for some the last time ever. Maybe that’s the mind set with which we should approach everything anyway, there being no guarantees of tomorrow. But now I am filled with nostalgia for the simple events of a week or two ago.

I went to a lecture in Campbell Hall. Can you imagine? I browsed in a downtown gallery and tried on a dress in the consignment shop, and I purchased round trip tickets to England, anticipating a spring visit to see our daughter. I sat at a table with a group of friends for dinner one evening, and we held hands and gave thanks, and the room was filled with the murmur of conversation, like music. I played with my six-year-old friend, sitting side-by-side eating ice cream and painting pictures. There was a joyful weekend visit from my bicycle buddies, replete with hugs and shared meals and a massage from Teresa, she of the magic touch. I casually made plans and appointments and looked forward to many pending social interactions, but in a nonchalant way that fell far short of the delight they deserved. I am a grateful person, but even so, I did not realize just how amazing and full my life was, and how abruptly it could change. Now everything feels uncertain.

I had a vivid thought yesterday about my mother. It came to me as I was chasing a rainbow, the very rainbow pictured above. I knew there would be a rainbow because of the way the sun at that moment was shining through the rain, and I ran around the house in search of it. It was late afternoon, with the sun sinking in the western sky, beaming through rain drops that sparkled like diamonds. Sure enough, it was there to the east, kissing the luminous hills. And I pictured my mother, clear as can be, because she was exactly the sort of person who would have been excited to see that rainbow, and she might have looked a lot like me, running clumsily, with skinny arms, long white hair, goofy enthusiasm. I remembered her pointing out a beautiful tree outside her window, counting blackbirds on a very green lawn in one of the fancy neighborhoods near the assisted living residence, marveling at clouds. I wish I had at least once taken her by the hand to show a rainbow to her.

So I’m nostalgic for what never was, and for the simple things that were. I grew up in a culture of expecting the worst, but I honed a defiant brand of optimism and generally took that stance. I specialize in hope and doing the best I can. And when we get through this–not if, but when–I intend to savor even the most ordinary interactions. I intend to accrue fewer reasons for regret, to take hands, love fully, and point out many rainbows.