I didn’t go looking for nostalgia this afternoon.
Three loft boxes unpacked,
contents eclectic, worthless, dull.
Then a battered shoebox that catches my breath,
ink labels long faded, corners tight with tape.
It bubbles with memories.
Photos.
Oh, those photos.
Images of the good time girl I was to the world.
Football groupie, party princess, tomboy joker, dancing queen.
So many personalities cast through insecurity,
obscurity avoided by my one-woman show.
Yet always in the wings, shrewd individuals hovered,
recognised the worth behind stage paint and theatre turns.
Some stayed the full programme.
Others just passed through, hands grabbing
mine for a few magical curtain calls.
We waved farewell with bonded promise,
of course, but best intentions faded
even as our trains trundled their separate ways.
Perhaps midlife finds us all sitting on bedroom floors
with beat-up containers,
deep in reflection of friendships past.
Knowing smiles spin metaphysical threads
between us, a virtual reunion, old faces still recognisable.
On that other plane we’d meet
once more, under the clock at Central Station.
I’d wear a red carnation, just in case.