Nostalgia
TO Rewrite The Past
Observing a Change of Pace
Shoes urgently slap the concrete, the sound resonates through the underground entry of the BART station. The sounds of squeaking joints and rattling metal accompanied by a thumping beat keep rhythm with the stomping shoes. I approach the metal gates, slide my transit card out of my back pocket, and slap it against the sensor.
8-car San Francisco Daly City train approaching now on Platform 1.
My breath hitches at the announcement, and the gate finally opens. I ascend the creaking escalator, and the screech of a train pulling into the platform above fills the air. A few more steps, a swing around the railing at the top of the escalator, and I’m in the train. I duck out from the aisle and set my instrument case down on the faded green polyester seat beside me. The train jolts into motion, and I’m forced into my seat. I blink, scrunching my nose at the pungent but familiar smell of weed. Snap out of it. I reach into my bag for a chemistry assignment.
––
My mid-teen years were filled with weekends like these, tightly scheduled and almost automatically performed. With my family, interactions transitioned into brief exchanges about logistics, like how early we should plan to depart one location for a timely arrival at another. In the car, only sounds of the classical music radio station filled the air as I reclaimed half an hour of sleep or unwrapped a sandwich.
My family and I were always close for the same inexplicable reasons that other families were not close. All of us possessed the humor of ten-year-olds and surprisingly thorny demeanors to match. For split seconds of nightfall when we were all in the same room, laughter would erupt raucously. The majority of our time, however, was spent apart.
My dad would work as long as the internet remained reliable, and my mom’s work day began when a typical work day ended. My sibling and I dedicated our time to opposite extracurriculars, one focusing on emotionally taxing music and the other on physically exhausting sport. I would leave for school before my brother rose and return with the darkness of night after a late rehearsal. Other times, we would barely see my dad due to consecutive business trips. Even on weekends, which at some point served merely as bookends for the work week, we neglected to make time for each other in favor of more extracurriculars, more work.
We don’t usually acknowledge feelings of regret. We reassure ourselves that the past does not bring us disappointment because admitting such regret would mean admitting a sort of dissatisfaction with our current selves. After all, the past informs the future, which ends up becoming the present. Often, we hurtle too quickly through life, too occupied with tasks at hand to recognize lingering thoughts—
What if we had…
Maybe I should have…
The should-haves and what-ifs flicker briefly – sometimes dimly, sometimes violently enough to alter our paths – but always as passing phenomena. We resolve that there are other things to worry about, switch our focus to a more immediate concern, and most of the time, life continues.
Some time earlier this year, though, when the cold had just begun its slow retreat and as the air grew fuzzier, life seemed to stop. Of course, our clocks still ticked steadily, and the sun and moon still made their rotations; however, the streets emptied, and the roar of the world seemed to dull to a whisper.
Activities were canceled, events were rescheduled, and people closed their doors. Many returned to their family’s homes for the rest of the semester, continuing on into the summer, as I did. We resorted to watching the world and its events through screens. The world outside seemed to be doing fine – better, even: thick pollution moved out of the crowded skies and animals ventured back out into spaces that used to belong to their ancestors. Days, then weeks, and eventually months passed in this manner.
Eventually, as the sun rose earlier, the air warming with an effervescent orange glow, we began to feel antsy and restless. Our family’s plans initially sparked from the passionate flame of spontaneity living within my mother.
These weekend plans all had a certain format to them. Even in our nature escapades, meant to grant our busy souls some respite from the work week, we followed a structured routine with time limits and fixed destinations. Some things really never change…
––
An alarm sounds abruptly, and I am shaken from my sleep.
Car rides to and from locations are now alive with chatter which flies carelessly and freely like the wind passing through the rolled-down windows, harboring a personal agenda to send all unsecured items and thoughts into disarray. Our shoulders are now relaxed on the weekends, at least when we’re together. The crinkling of the excessive takeout packaging is now a leisurely choice, not a rushed necessity in transit.
In some ways, things never really changed. We are still the same family, with the same simultaneously compatible and clashing personalities. We continue to structure our days of rest and work. But things are slower.
Words and Photos: Anna Fang
