Writings on the Wall > Days of smoke and memories

The simple little houses of the small town where I was raised fade away. Their brick wash painted walls turn into the shapeless ghosts of my remembrance.

It is helpless to try to get them back.

Every time I think or talk about them, I replace their true images for what, perhaps, I always want them to be.

It’s a curse.

Every word I say to feel closer to home is surrounded by the sweet and sour flavor of nostalgia. It takes me further away instead.

The voices and smells of the people I met get tangled in my mind with my fantasies, my need to fill the holes in their stories and my past.

If I look back, it seems a thousand years ago. My yesterday never ends.  From this cold exile, I no longer smell the smoke of my uncle’s cigar.

But it bothers me more than ever.

Augusto Bordelois