Nostalgia

I can see it so clearly –
my brain hard at work,
tiny little versions of me rushing about
wearing focussed frowns,
ruffling through drawers,
mechanically, purposefully –
a well-oiled machine –
sorting through my memories,
weeding out the bad ones and flicking them aside dismissively –
too important to be discarded,
but it's not what we need at the moment, is it? –
and simultaneously picking out the good ones,
the best ones,
and getting to work –
they're good, after all, not perfect –
smoothing out the blemishes, embellishing,
painting it over with a rosy, watery hue,
and adding a few stickers
in carefully chosen places,
sewing the memories together in a patchwork –
the mismatch is endearing –
and after a few finishing touches,
it's ready
beautifully crafted
a very well-done school project
a heart-breaking trailer of a bright and grey past,
all concise and wrapped up in pretty paper –
formulaic, but it doesn't matter –
they really have done a good job,
they deserve a pat on the back and a little break,
and in the meantime, I settle in –
seated at a big round table with lots of chairs
but they're all empty,
I'm all alone –
I settle in,
and the projector crackles
and spits alive,
and the film begins to roll,
and –

Oh dear, I think I'll be here a while.