The Boat Beats on

As I tread forward, fighting against the current, it is my mind that bares the memories. The further I travel, the heavier my mind becomes, exceeding its limits. Neurons bounce mindlessly around, following no organizational pattern. No way to dive inside and sort them out myself, I am left defenseless against myself, left to forget.

When.. I smell it, the comforting scent of the cranberry soap. Instantly I remember the holidays, and the soap and smell that travelled all around my grandmother’s house, bringing a sense of warmth from the frosty blizzards afar.

I hear the echoes of birds singing, crickets chirping, and the bustling of woodland creatures. I am brought back to years ago when I was a child; frolicking in the grass, drawing in the mud while making leaf boats in the puddles. My mother close by, preparing me a snack.

Whenever a cherry red carpet draws my eyesight, my nostalgia exudes happiness and magic. From performing as a child at Sentry Theater, waltzing down the big red staircase, and gazing at the view of hundreds of red seats watching my from the stage.

Sitting down on the knit blanket, that was never soft, but rather tough. It held me off the grass at baseball games, picnics, and Fourth of July fireworks.

And as I would stare amazed at the light show in the sky, I’d stuff myself with the cherry ropes of licorice. Pulling apart the strings and passing around the bag to my eager siblings.

Our nostalgic memory is the biggest marketing tool in our society. Dangerously trapping us in the past, but also allowing us to live in our presence, by the offerings of what-life-was.