No Poetic Device

This week has had nostalgia around every corner. The evening shift has seen me scheduled with the most interesting co-worker of the lab, which has led me to sharing many of my old stories, simply because she hasn't heard them yet. And as we've shared control over the music we work to, I've flipped that long forgotten 'Shuffle' switch on my iPod, reacquainting me with songs and bands that were my soundtrack so long ago. That glorious fog I walked home in the other night brought me back to the wondrous eight months I lived in Vancouver (even though they weren't actually so wondrous). Walking home so late at night after my evening shifts has returned me to my undergrad days, where I couldn't bear to leave my boy's side before 3 AM (thank goodness he is now a man who goes to bed long before then). The early morning walks also bring me back to that long revered last night of summer camp, where all us hoodlums would pull an all nighter, taking part in fairly calm activities such as enjoying the fruits of the labour of the silent aspiring furniture movers, who thoughtfully rearranged the Center's foyer furnishings onto the soccer field (there's a certain chair that I wanted to reposition to someone's stoop this morning to provide a very well-deserving cat a nice place so perch on). Another last night activity involved falling asleep in heaps in a field or on someone's deck. This Blankoat, made of Icelandic wool by the brilliant Sruli Recht (who I will return to very soon), vividly reminds me of one of my sleeping friends. A dream I had this week led me to email another old friend from said summer camp days, whom I haven't spoken to in years. And yet all this nostalgia isn't making me feel old. Perhaps it's the gorgeous spring weather, and the new pair of monochrome extra-high Chucks that keep the old feeling new again. Sigh.