Nostalgia

I run my hands which are wrinkled with time along the splintered park bench. My fingers trace out the heart carved into the seat. A small smile slips over my face. My eyes crinkle with pain and joy. Heaving breaths in and out of my calmed chest, I extract a small, starch white card from my coat pocket. 

Again my hands wander over the seat. I can still clearly remember that nostalgic day. When I sat on this very park bench, clutching the same letter. Years ago, when the smudged ink was still drying and my crinkled face was smooth and young. 

As the memories surge through me, I collect the note in my hands and read, mouthing the words with my raspy mouth. 

Dear,

Battles were won, 

Battles were lost. 

My father has accepted, 

but my mother has not, 

Yet we shall be together, 

Forever, 

I promise 

I will intercept, 

Until the answer is perfect,

And until our day of marriage. 

She was poetic, she was. I remember my eyes soaking those words in for the first time. The love in my eyes, and the smile on my face. The knife in my hands, as I carved the heart into the seat.

The day of her passing, I came to this very seat. It reminds me of her. It's a piece of my heart, even though it's only a rotting bench. It's my nostalgia.