It’s ironic I love the Fall so much because it always makes me feel melancholic and nostalgic all at once. If you’ve ever experienced either or both you know that the feeling is of sadness, loneliness, abandonment, emptiness, or just missing some one or some particular place.
My saying is always, I miss home. But truly, I am not sure where home is. I came to this country when I was a little girl. I was smuggled in by my grandmother for a better life, a better future, a better who knows what. At times I have short memories of those days when I was a little girl. I remember the smell of wood burning, usually coming from people’s chimneys as they used their wood stoves. Yeah, I lived in a place where people used wood stoves!
I remember the smell of fresh made tortillas, I remember the smell of freshly roasted coffee, or cashews. I remember the smell of a quite afternoon. And I remember the way it felt as the sun began to set on another day. As a child raised by a woman other then her mother, I remember the loneliness I felt from not knowing who my mother was or what she looked like. I just knew she existed, she loved me and she sent me money for all my necessities.
But there were days when I laid in my cot and wonder where she was. I imagined her sitting in a chair laughing and talking. I could picture distant places that only existed in my mind cause I sure couldn’t read nor did I have any books at home. From time to time the little girl I used to be still lays in bed with me as the afternoon draws to a close. And my favorite time of the day is watching as the sun dips lower and lower to be seen on the other side of the world as we go around. I love laying there as the light turns to dusk and dusk turns to dark. Even if it stirs melancholy in my heart.
My memories from childhood aren’t always very clear, but I know the feeling when I smell something familiar. But having a very acute sense of smell isn’t always that pleasant because I can smell things sometimes only dogs should be able to smell. But if I’ve smelled it before, if it’s attached to a memory, if it meant something, it will surely trigger my memory and transport me back to that place where I was on that day.
At times the memories are not pleasant. At times they are extremely painful. At times they are bizarre, rare or even thought provoking because I didn’t realize I had a memory for that. I can never really tell what will pop up when something comes into my life. But I know the feeling I get makes me melancholic. Especially those memories from when I was a happy little girl. Or so I thought.
Sometimes it is nice to live in denial. It’s nice to not have something to think about or remind you of something you don’t want. At times the memories are so distinct of when I was a little girl that I can feel the same feeling and can almost swear I’m back there again. Many times I’ve wanted to be there, to be home, to be safe, to be loved, to be cared for. But then I remember that I wasn’t always loved or safe or cared for.
Right now melancholy takes me back to the place I used to call home when I was a teenage girl. The girl that went to high school and was a proud Lady Knight, the Knight was the mascot of our school at JFK. I loved wearing my marching band uniform, being all done up in our colors of blood red and black, wearing my white gloves and my feathered hat, while following the beat of the drum line. I held my beautifully polished alto saxophone to my chest with such great pride. And I smiled broad when our neighbors came out to watch us march down the street on our way to the stadium on game day. They cheered from their porches and their balconies, most of them JFK alumni too, waving their JFK pennants watching us go by. Our formations were crisp and we marched with such precision the local newspaper called us THE MARCHING 100, because we were a 100 member marching band. And we were good in our time.
I remember being such a good student. I worked hard on my projects; I played volleyball for the JV squad and did not want a spot on Varsity because I didn’t want to stop playing the sax in the band. I loved volleyball and loved going to practice all the time. But the band was my favorite place to be even if I had to get up at 6am to walk my ass to the stadium for practice on those cool Fall days in New Jersey.
I remember my heavy bag pack on my back and my precious saxophone in its case. I haven’t owned a saxophone in over 13 years. I sold the last one I had when Rachel was 3 years old. And it hurt my heart so much to just see it go. It took a lot of effort to sell it but I was not playing it and such a beautiful instrument deserved an owner who would love it back. My sax was a shiny gold. Long and lean with contours so defined, it almost feels like your holding your soul in your hands from time to time.
I have not played the sax in years. I don’t even think I can anymore. But I still stop where ever I am when I hear an alto sax play. The soprano sounds beautiful as well, but my love is the alto sax with its crooning and low notes all intertwined. Now I can barely remember the last time I put a reef to my mouth, blew into the mouthpiece and had music come out. I miss those days when I sat in my room playing silly little songs like Mary had a Little Lamb and Pop Goes the Weasel. Now all I can hope for is to never forget the feeling I got from the coolest instrument alive.
My second love after the saxophone was the violin. And yes, I even gave that a try. I was very good at it and played that during my lunch time. I wish for once I could just forget about work, sit in a chair holding a sax or a violin and just listening to the notes soar. Nothing is more beautiful then a concerto of cellos and violins in the dark with that someone you love as you make sweet love. Or you can get more provocative and burn a few candles just for the shadows made by candlelight.
Now that there has been a cool breeze and a little more darkness here in LA, there is a little more feel of home in Paterson, the little city that gave me hope. At first I thought I had ruined everything I had with the pregnancy I encountered at 17 but looking in to Rachel’s face I could never use the word mistake. Maybe I can call it a misstep, maybe an awkward about face, maybe just one of the angels materializing to be with me full time. But I can never use the word mistake.
Granted my life is not of the successful musician my band director thought I would be. Or the great song writer my English teacher encouraged me to be. But in all its turns, the whirls in my life are of many colors and the swirls are of candy sweet. I just wish I could go back to being that fifteen year old girl who knew everything and had the world by the horns.
Ironically, I hated my life at fifteen. I felt my mother didn’t love me and I wished I would die soon. I guess you have noticed by now I’ve always been a drama queen. And that is never going to change. But one thing I know is I live every moment with passion giving who ever is with me or next to me the best I can offer even if they don’t deserve it or ask for it I do it anyway. I don’t regret, stop or go backwards just because it’s starting to scare me.
This particular idea is probably what scares most women. When they find a woman like me, who is more passionate, more given to craziness and taking risks because I see in you something I don’t see in others. And when you keep asking the same question of what I see in you as opposed to someone else, I don’t know how to answer because I feel with my heart not with my logic. And I never try to explain to my heart what my mind is thinking because those two have agreed to disagree and try to live in peace and harmony within in.
If heart is wrong logic knows better then to say I told you so. But when logic is wrong heart always says, don’t worry we are in this together and we will figure it out. Never give up on the one person who makes you smile and you can’t stop thinking about. Although, logic does get upset with heart from time to time they are not allowed to fight because soul does not want to referee any of those bouts. And stomach is no good at it cause every time he sees confrontation he just turns in knots.
Aside from all the things that make me smile and make me cry. To all those memories that bring that feeling of melancholy I add one more. The memory of you! Although I never was able to put the tips of my fingers to your face, I was able to hear your voice. And those butterflies that arrived when your voice entered my ear canal are distinct and provoked by no one else but you. Now I feel melancholy for those days when we spent hours on the phone listening to your funny memories. And although I was never privileged to hold your hand or kiss your lips, in my dreams you slept close to me with your head on my chest and my fingers in your hair.
Melancholy is a rude visitor, doesn’t call before it comes, it just does. Makes you feel like you are missing something in your life. Reminding you of that empty space left by that person who is now gone and you don’t want to replace but you know you should. It takes stabs at your consciousness and leaves you blind. But answers no questions because the bastard is deaf and dumb.
My saying is always, I miss home. But truly, I am not sure where home is. I came to this country when I was a little girl. I was smuggled in by my grandmother for a better life, a better future, a better who knows what. At times I have short memories of those days when I was a little girl. I remember the smell of wood burning, usually coming from people’s chimneys as they used their wood stoves. Yeah, I lived in a place where people used wood stoves!
I remember the smell of fresh made tortillas, I remember the smell of freshly roasted coffee, or cashews. I remember the smell of a quite afternoon. And I remember the way it felt as the sun began to set on another day. As a child raised by a woman other then her mother, I remember the loneliness I felt from not knowing who my mother was or what she looked like. I just knew she existed, she loved me and she sent me money for all my necessities.
But there were days when I laid in my cot and wonder where she was. I imagined her sitting in a chair laughing and talking. I could picture distant places that only existed in my mind cause I sure couldn’t read nor did I have any books at home. From time to time the little girl I used to be still lays in bed with me as the afternoon draws to a close. And my favorite time of the day is watching as the sun dips lower and lower to be seen on the other side of the world as we go around. I love laying there as the light turns to dusk and dusk turns to dark. Even if it stirs melancholy in my heart.
My memories from childhood aren’t always very clear, but I know the feeling when I smell something familiar. But having a very acute sense of smell isn’t always that pleasant because I can smell things sometimes only dogs should be able to smell. But if I’ve smelled it before, if it’s attached to a memory, if it meant something, it will surely trigger my memory and transport me back to that place where I was on that day.
At times the memories are not pleasant. At times they are extremely painful. At times they are bizarre, rare or even thought provoking because I didn’t realize I had a memory for that. I can never really tell what will pop up when something comes into my life. But I know the feeling I get makes me melancholic. Especially those memories from when I was a happy little girl. Or so I thought.
Sometimes it is nice to live in denial. It’s nice to not have something to think about or remind you of something you don’t want. At times the memories are so distinct of when I was a little girl that I can feel the same feeling and can almost swear I’m back there again. Many times I’ve wanted to be there, to be home, to be safe, to be loved, to be cared for. But then I remember that I wasn’t always loved or safe or cared for.
Right now melancholy takes me back to the place I used to call home when I was a teenage girl. The girl that went to high school and was a proud Lady Knight, the Knight was the mascot of our school at JFK. I loved wearing my marching band uniform, being all done up in our colors of blood red and black, wearing my white gloves and my feathered hat, while following the beat of the drum line. I held my beautifully polished alto saxophone to my chest with such great pride. And I smiled broad when our neighbors came out to watch us march down the street on our way to the stadium on game day. They cheered from their porches and their balconies, most of them JFK alumni too, waving their JFK pennants watching us go by. Our formations were crisp and we marched with such precision the local newspaper called us THE MARCHING 100, because we were a 100 member marching band. And we were good in our time.
I remember being such a good student. I worked hard on my projects; I played volleyball for the JV squad and did not want a spot on Varsity because I didn’t want to stop playing the sax in the band. I loved volleyball and loved going to practice all the time. But the band was my favorite place to be even if I had to get up at 6am to walk my ass to the stadium for practice on those cool Fall days in New Jersey.
I remember my heavy bag pack on my back and my precious saxophone in its case. I haven’t owned a saxophone in over 13 years. I sold the last one I had when Rachel was 3 years old. And it hurt my heart so much to just see it go. It took a lot of effort to sell it but I was not playing it and such a beautiful instrument deserved an owner who would love it back. My sax was a shiny gold. Long and lean with contours so defined, it almost feels like your holding your soul in your hands from time to time.
I have not played the sax in years. I don’t even think I can anymore. But I still stop where ever I am when I hear an alto sax play. The soprano sounds beautiful as well, but my love is the alto sax with its crooning and low notes all intertwined. Now I can barely remember the last time I put a reef to my mouth, blew into the mouthpiece and had music come out. I miss those days when I sat in my room playing silly little songs like Mary had a Little Lamb and Pop Goes the Weasel. Now all I can hope for is to never forget the feeling I got from the coolest instrument alive.
My second love after the saxophone was the violin. And yes, I even gave that a try. I was very good at it and played that during my lunch time. I wish for once I could just forget about work, sit in a chair holding a sax or a violin and just listening to the notes soar. Nothing is more beautiful then a concerto of cellos and violins in the dark with that someone you love as you make sweet love. Or you can get more provocative and burn a few candles just for the shadows made by candlelight.
Now that there has been a cool breeze and a little more darkness here in LA, there is a little more feel of home in Paterson, the little city that gave me hope. At first I thought I had ruined everything I had with the pregnancy I encountered at 17 but looking in to Rachel’s face I could never use the word mistake. Maybe I can call it a misstep, maybe an awkward about face, maybe just one of the angels materializing to be with me full time. But I can never use the word mistake.
Granted my life is not of the successful musician my band director thought I would be. Or the great song writer my English teacher encouraged me to be. But in all its turns, the whirls in my life are of many colors and the swirls are of candy sweet. I just wish I could go back to being that fifteen year old girl who knew everything and had the world by the horns.
Ironically, I hated my life at fifteen. I felt my mother didn’t love me and I wished I would die soon. I guess you have noticed by now I’ve always been a drama queen. And that is never going to change. But one thing I know is I live every moment with passion giving who ever is with me or next to me the best I can offer even if they don’t deserve it or ask for it I do it anyway. I don’t regret, stop or go backwards just because it’s starting to scare me.
This particular idea is probably what scares most women. When they find a woman like me, who is more passionate, more given to craziness and taking risks because I see in you something I don’t see in others. And when you keep asking the same question of what I see in you as opposed to someone else, I don’t know how to answer because I feel with my heart not with my logic. And I never try to explain to my heart what my mind is thinking because those two have agreed to disagree and try to live in peace and harmony within in.
If heart is wrong logic knows better then to say I told you so. But when logic is wrong heart always says, don’t worry we are in this together and we will figure it out. Never give up on the one person who makes you smile and you can’t stop thinking about. Although, logic does get upset with heart from time to time they are not allowed to fight because soul does not want to referee any of those bouts. And stomach is no good at it cause every time he sees confrontation he just turns in knots.
Aside from all the things that make me smile and make me cry. To all those memories that bring that feeling of melancholy I add one more. The memory of you! Although I never was able to put the tips of my fingers to your face, I was able to hear your voice. And those butterflies that arrived when your voice entered my ear canal are distinct and provoked by no one else but you. Now I feel melancholy for those days when we spent hours on the phone listening to your funny memories. And although I was never privileged to hold your hand or kiss your lips, in my dreams you slept close to me with your head on my chest and my fingers in your hair.
Melancholy is a rude visitor, doesn’t call before it comes, it just does. Makes you feel like you are missing something in your life. Reminding you of that empty space left by that person who is now gone and you don’t want to replace but you know you should. It takes stabs at your consciousness and leaves you blind. But answers no questions because the bastard is deaf and dumb.
I am blown away by the way you write. Its beautiful! You should really write your own book!
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Priscila