Aftertaste
The following piece is a poem about an experience that I had when visiting my great-uncle’s house this summer. I hadn’t been there in such a long time that I almost forgot it existed altogether, only until I went inside and was drenched with nostalgia in a way I never had before. It was almost like I could taste the past memories; they felt that palpable. The name of the piece, “aftertaste”, comes from my personal experience with nostalgia.. every moment you live is an experience where you try & taste new things; nostalgia is just the bittersweet aftertaste from those moments that may have dissipated from your memory long ago, sometimes without you even realizing.
it’s strange, walking through a house she doesn’t remember anymore. her fingertips graze walls where the paper has begun to fade and peel. feet drag across carpet, they scoop around corners where loose strands fray. the sun glares a cherry red through the downstairs window, effortlessly splitting the room into pieces through a dust-caked glass panel.
old memories flood back to her; she can taste them on the tip of her tongue. they are sharp like ginger; spicy when you bite down too quick between your teeth. past the door frame, there is a large television–remember when she sat there, giddy, watching a movie with cousins whose faces she can no longer place? if you walk ten paces north, you can see the plastic swings (now lost behind spider webs) where a younger version of her played, so sure that the only point of life was that breeze pulling up on your hair or that gust of wind pulsing through your cheeks.
she relished that past; envied that ignorance.
lazy steps up the stairs. toes hissing when touching cool tiles. open door, shut, click. chestnuts and leftover oatmeal on the table, dirty dishes stacked by the sink. goodbye hugs, somber hands waving goodbye (will she see them again?). the car stumbles, and slowly creeps away. away from the big white house where purple buds gasp for breath, their sighs silenced by the splash of water nearby. cows the color of ripe oranges moan in the distance; the light splashes on their matted backs.
will she ever see this again, as it is in this very moment? will she let that memory’s flavor set in her mouth, let it dissipate on her taste buds, let it savor in the back of her throat? the car spins away from the past, and she lets nostalgia’s bittersweet aftertaste settle on her lips.
By Kari Trail