I’m as nostalgic as they come.
I remember walking around my high school
during the first week of my senior year
the entire year in front of me, thinking
this is all going to end.
I’m so nostalgic. I get teary-eyed
about things that haven’t happened yet.
This is the curse of the poet –
forever removed from actual experiences
as we’re too busy assessing them.
But perhaps this wasn’t the case with
those of us across the river from the
promised land. We’d been looking forward
for forty years and we already want to be
on the other side, drying our feet off
Our sights were set on the battles ahead
the buildings to be built, the seeds we’d
need to put in the ground. We’d practically
already named our future children
hardly a brain cell left to remember Egypt
the lessons of the rock, and the fire that
moved us from place to place.
Sing us of our history, Oh Moses.
I, personally, don’t need the reminder as
I’m already weeping about my wet feet.
I’ve been dreaming of dipping my toes
in the river of our freedom. But I’ll never
forget how I got here. Praises will be sung.
Holidays invented, festive meals galore.
The past isn’t even the past, they’ll say one day.
I’m choking up thinking about it.