I can’t control who knocks on my door, but I can decide whether to answer or not.
Nostalgia knocked on my door tonight. Last time I swore I wouldn't let her in again. She knew about my vow, but came anyway.
I heard her out on my stoop.
She was singing jazzy blues—Singing like I wish I could—
Blues of a thousand different shades in that achy vibrato—deep and rich.
Melancholy created the tonal quality of her voice.
Yes, I answered the door. I tried to ignore her, but I couldn't resist that voice and that song.
I invited her to come in and visit. I hoped she wouldn't stay too long.
I offered her coffee. And we talked and talked. We revisited places I haven’t been in a long, long time. We talked about what used to be. We shared the same stories, but we remembered them a little differently, and we argued about the details.
The bittersweet visit ended abruptly when I told my friend, Nostalgia, that I could see her rose-colored glasses perched on her nose.
She accused me of being a cynic and left.
Next time I just won't answer the door.