Last night the blue glow of televisions in chipped white houses made me nostalgic for a past that was never really mine. I miss those sagging porches one after the other, crooked floors, gas stoves that saw their cleanest days a hundred years ago. Except back then I would always rather be in than out, and nostalgia tells it the other way: a girl outside in the street, skipping past those doors, the night sent spinning.
But this afternoon I write next to the window that blows in ocean air. The wood floor smooth as windswept sand. The highway overpass sounds the thunder. The natures realign.