Tag: nostalgia

Posted in childhood, poetry

The End of Summer

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The End of Summer This isn’t working, trying to write this poem about the end of summer, the innocence walked and lost, the giggles of kissing a boy on the cheek underneath the playground slide, holding hands in secret, when sundresses were sweet, bad haircuts were accepted, expected, and no one cared if ice cream dripped down elbows. I don’t want to be that poet that’s trapped in childhood, recounting expected images, accept that nothing about growing up in a suburban middle class family was unique. We all caught fireflies in jars at dusk and walked through neighborhoods to the pool, jumped off swing sets and drew lines in mulch to see who landed further. In my head I’m still the girl with sun kissed cheeks, freckles of youth dotting my nose, craving popsicles, casting my arms out in a T and twirling until I’m so dizzy my laugh cramps in my stomach, but it’s the end of the summer and there’s a weird emptiness beneath my heart. Nothing’s the same as it used to be. —Leanne Rebecca

Nostalgia central.

Posted in love, poetry

Always and Forever

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Always and Forever I don’t know how I forgot about that book. I saw it in the window of a used bookstore last week, stumbling into childhood nostalgia as if jumping into a puddle, both feet all at once, splashed by flashes of of my mom cradling me in her arms, singing the made up melody to the song in that forgotten book. I’m amazed I learned to sleep without her hug, without her voice rocking me into dreams, without the comfort of a mother in the room down the hall, amazed I could wake without the gentle coaxing of her singing and the warmth of her arms holding me, assuring me that she’d keep me safe. Wake up Leanne, wake up Leanne, wake up, wake up, wake up, she’d sing, coaxing my eyes to open, teaching me through song how to fill a room with love, and bright eyed soak it up with the morning sun. I always felt ready for the day, nurtured by her hand in mine, fingers always and forever intertwined until the moment she knew she could let go, taking off the training wheels to my bicycle, and watch me ride alone. —Leanne Rebecca

I write this poem with extreme thanks for the blessed life that I’ve led, a carefree childhood and loving family. I recognize that Mother’s Day isn’t rainbows and butterflies for many people: mothers that have lost their children, children that have lost their mothers, broken families, reality. Even in my family, there’s an element of sadness on this day. My parents buried their first child when she was 16 months old. This is also the first Mother’s Day since my Grandma Genny died.

It’s easy to forget that many many emotions surround this day and where one family smiles another might cry. It’s important to empathize and take a moment to think about the true weight of this day. I find it allows me to appreciate what I have that much more. I’m beyond thankful to be filled with so much love.

I love you, Mom.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Music, poetry

Misfit in a Typecast World

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Misfit in a Typecast World I stood in line outside the venue breathing the exhaust of smokers’ lungs, coughing, unsure how to navigate the polluted air. No one else seemed bothered, accustomed to clouds following their groups -- stereotyped— punk kids that started smoking at age 13 because everyone else was doing it. The room already smelled of sweat even though the first band hadn’t started yet, leftovers from the last show, grunge encrusted walls, corners on posters curling in the humidity, a hotbox of male testosterone building as the space in front of the stage filled. I was the only one in the room without a facial piercing or gauged ears, at home in Kate Spade earrings, cheeks pinked with Pinot Noir, not dressed in head to toe black or a band t-shirt. I leaned against the wall, collecting the scene in future nostalgia of the time I took myself to a local band’s show, a misfit in a typecast world, the preppy girl alone in the corner that knew every word, every single song, and danced harder than the guy with spikes instead of a face

Don’t put yourself in a box.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poem, writing

Always My Favorite Jeans

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Always My Favorite Jeans I tucked your heart into my pocket for hushed safe keeping, to carry with me every time I wear these jeans. And when the day comes that these jeans are folded in a drawer, when I’m ready to brave the day with a different look, collecting the beats of someone else's heart in the back pocket of new jeans, I promise I’ll still carry you with me. Maybe not in my pocket, so accessible. But in the nostalgia of all the times I danced in those jeans, in all the rips and stains of forever love.

Sometimes I write sappy poems. This is one of them. I loved every single second of milking every line for all the cheese I could muster. I wish you all the merriest of Monday nights.

Sleep well, my friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Solace

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Solace There’s a divide in the memories, skating the line of nostalgia and regret, submerged both in deep admiration for the moments worth holding and drowning at the same time, gasping for resolution, for forgiveness, finding solace only in knowing that tomorrow’s memories are whole, yet to be broken by mistakes or the complexities of emotion.

Today is a brand new day, a day to let go, a day to take hold, a day to live in the moment. We are all shaped by our histories. They are written in the scars in our skin and the rhythms of our hearts, but those marks of yesterdays do not dictate who we will be today. Let what once was live in memory. Laugh at the good ones and learn from the bad ones. Remember, you are always moving forward.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, friendship, poetry, writing

Roommates

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Roommates Every time I blow dry my hair I think of you, us sitting on the floor on opposite sides of the dorm because the outlets were under our desks. Remember how we didn’t vacuum the entire first semester and that place where the baseboards meet the carpet was caked with errant strands, a second carpet on top of the shitty stuff already there. I still use the same dryer six years later, the same $18 pink one with the retractable cord. I think I told you this but I always thought your hair was gorgeous, the type of hair that had an essence, that reflected the type of person you are, carefree and beautiful with hints of originality, like how you’d wear it in a loose knot on the top of your head. I swear you were the one that started that trend. I remember how you never brushed it, just combed through with your hands and how I stole the practice for three years after that, convinced that if I ripped through the knots with the claws of a brush that I’d do more damage than good. Mostly I just wanted to be like you.

Hopelessly nostalgic tonight. This one’s for one of my favorite people in this world.

Sleep well my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

To Have You

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

To Have You I swallow nostalgia with the mucus building up in the back of my throat, a ball of what once was scratching as if I’d tried to take a pill without water. Behind every blink I see flashes of friendship, come and gone, the days when I never feared lonely afternoons, when tomorrow was a hopeful word, when I didn’t want to run from today and expunge yesterdays with a worn out pencil eraser, a smeared memory not quite deleted. Those were the days of club dancing, sleeping until noon, pajama parties and vodka, when none of us really cared that we didn’t have boyfriends because we had each other. I swallow the nostalgia, the distance of our cities stuck at the back of my throat, a lump growing like a tumor as we get older and farther away from the days of not caring that we don’t have boyfriends.

Today is one of the rare afternoons on a weekday that I have nothing to do. It’s in those times that I tend to think too much, thinking about every aspect of my life, and not in a healthy way. I have a habit of looking too closely at the minutes of a day, wondering too much about why I’m doing what I’m doing and making a list of all the things that are missing. I envy the people that live so carefree, loving the moment and embracing alone time with love. I wonder if they’re acting.

I hope you catch some sunshine today!

–Leanne Rebecca