In the morning on the warmest day it’s still cool but you can feel the temperature start to change. I get to the park earlier than normal and the sky is the color of abalone shell, turquoise mixed with pink. When machines took away all our work maybe one day as an old man I’d get a job in a small grocery store on an island in the San Juans, somewhere they still wanted humans to ring up shoppers, and I’d make small talk with the other staff and tell them how I used to work in tech and they’d shake their heads in disbelief. And when my shift was over I’d drive home in my little used car to our flat, our pets and plants, and Dawn would be there piddling in the garden and I’d fix dinner. Then we’d talk about our day. And I’d sometimes think back to my days of plenty, perhaps even read old journals about my morning walks to the park, the sound of frogs singing and the look of the moon behind the trees, and I’d long for those times. And the kettle would blow and I’d  steady myself to turn it off. Today would be the warmest day. The birds knew it, the early blooms did too. And this was just the beginning. My heart aches for the days I didn’t know I had it so good.

Categories: Creative Nonfiction, prose

Tags: journal writing, Nostalgia, prose