Variety

When I think back to my travels,

I often remember

the people. Flashes of crows

feet, the widening of smiles,

and the annoyed, playful

gazes of someone sick of my

shit.

In the background, there's

always a logo:

Sometimes, it's 7/11; others

it's CU.

The specifics are irrelevant

—So long as there is a place

to sit,

cheap alcohol, an ashtray,

and a desire for company.

It's this desire I miss the most.

I miss it from the bowls of my

heart.

I miss the ways in which

she challenged me. The way

he brought me out of my shell.

The way they listened.

Those moments, at those

places, tend to stick with you

like cat fur on all your favourite

clothes

—or scars.

A friend once told me that

these moments are the

hardest to bear because

that's how the insidious

kinds of nostalgia creep in,

that's how you start missing

what was instead of

embracing what is.

I didn't know, as usual,

what to say at that moment.

But reflection guided me

to an answer.

These moments being scars

is not what's important

—the perception of them is.

They're multifaceted.

They're sad because I miss them.

And happy because I had them.

Depending on how I look, they

change shape, size and colour.

I miss those times, I

miss those people, and I miss

those nondescript places.

But those times are done.

And it's important to

remember that otherwise, I'll

miss out on all the other

places of variety.

And the special

people they'll bring.