The Sweet Curse of Nostalgia

By: Sankara “Le prince heritier” Olama-Yai

I love the smell of cigarette smoke 
Not because I’m a smoker, I love the smell because 
It takes me back, back to the piss stained streets 
That raised me, where the overwhelming aroma
Of freshly lit cigarettes plagued the air 
I love the taste of wine, the fermented freshness swims 
About in my mouth, skipping merrily atop my taste buds 
The slightly bitter aftertaste takes me on a journey 
Through nostalgia seeped memories, back to familiar scenes 
Summer afternoons in Paris with my grandfather
He’d always give me a sip as my curious eye latched onto his glass 
I fell in love with the succulent juices of Italian vineyard wines 
I feel a tinge of comfort, let slip a smile, on packed trains and buses 
Which remind me of my crowded commute in Moldova 
I reminisce on hot sunny days and bumpy rides
Dragging out and dusting off ancient memories of 
Those sweltering school days in Congo
The best days of our lives are trapped in the closet of our minds 
Little things help float them to the surface unwithered
These little drops of reminiscence that drip from the cave of our souls
Are both a gift and a curse 
The bittersweet taste of nostalgia, so warm and fleeting, 
Yet forever painful