Nostalgia

No one has ever said

these are the good ol’ days—

in the moments they’re

occurring.

The skies are always cobalt

on our memory’s other side.

The rain more mist than grief.

The flooding just a puddle

which got a little

carried away; snow the weight

of bubbles—toys that wouldn’t break

unless you broke ‘em—on purpose;

and you on the hospital

bed, thrusting out your baby

while you shrieked, yet never half as

painful as the gallstones

yet to come. Forceps

made of silver—or a blade of

tinsel’s gold, a sliced & sectioned

C that brought bikinis to an

end. The one-

piece always safer

mama said. Everyone

flaunts their navel

nowadays.

You had to hop a bus

to go to the bank

& get some cash.

It was only 20 cents,

your coughing fit of

laughter from the smoke.

An hour to the

athenaeum

just to answer which is older—

Morocco or Mexico.

They don’t make ‘em

like they used to,

great-grandma

always mumbled through

her dentures. Her teeth could

only take so many

punches-to-the-jaw.

Men were men &

folks were always white.

Now the baristas

are mostly brown—

someone spelt her name

wrong 15 minutes before

she passed. Hospitals

never used to have

Tim Horton’s. The bro

just played defence

for the Maple Leafs. Back

when even they

could win the cup.

Today my hands are all

a-tremor while I scroll,

snorting at the

piglet gone astray,

running through the concourse

of another abandoned mall,

the laces of my Sambas

hanging down, aware it never

gets any better than this.

Andreas Gripp

November 17, 2025

RF Image