Somewhat inexplicably, I get nostalgic for sections of my childhood. I'm, of course, very selective about which pieces to be nostalgic about... I suppose that's part of the nature of nostalgia in the first place.
You never remember all of it; the way it really was. You only remember the blue bug convertibles and the dusty amps and the way a steel guitar can echo beyond the tent, and through the coves at Disneyland Ranch while you dance with wind-blown hair on the waterfront, on a make-shift parque dance floor. The way it was otherworldly, like your memories themselves. Certainly not from any real world you lived in then.
But still, you remember them. The summers at your grandparents beach house. The mosquitoes and the loneliness, but the kind you relished. You're nostalgic for that. And even for your mom, when she'd play Emmylou Harris and sing along through her cloud of smoke.
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