Quotes About Nostalgia

I tried to conjure Ali's frozen face, to REALLY see his tranquil eyes, but time can be a greedy thing - sometimes it steals all the details for itself.

Ojalá recordaras las calles atestadas, con aquel olor a kibbeh frito, y los paseos que dábamos al atardecer con tu madre por la plaza de la Torre del Reloj.

I wish you remembered Homs as I do, Marwan.

There were times when, like a word on the tip of her tongue, Mariam's face eluded her. But now, in this place, it's easy to summon Mariam behind the lids of her eyes.

Almost ten years. But, for a moment, standing there with Tariq in the sunlight, it was as though those years had never happened. Her parents' deaths, her marriage to Rasheed, the killings, the rockets, the Taliban, the beatings, the hunger, even her children, all of it seemed like a dream, a bizarre detour, a mere interlude between that last afternoon together and this moment.

Idris thinks longingly of when they were small and helpless, so wholly dependent on him.

Once, watching an old film, Lemar had asked Idris if he had been alive back when the world was in black and white. The memory brings a smile. He kisses his sons' cheeks.

The cuts stung and didn't heal for a couple of weeks, but I didn't mind. They were reminders of a beloved season that had once again passed to quickly.

A sadness came over me. Returning to Kabul was like running into an old, forgotten friend and seeing that life hadn't been good to him, that he'd become homeless and destitute.

The place was a familiar as breath but as far from his life now as the moon.

She had died at age twelve, and by now she was nothing but the memory of love-- nothing, now, but bones.

she had only made things worse. His angry eyes met hers in the mirror, and she remembered his soft plump infant hand pressed against her cheek, his laughter trilling through the rooms. Another boy altogether, that child. Where had he gone?

When he reached the desk he handed Caroline a photograph in a dark blue cardboard frame. It was a portrait, black and white, faintly tinted. The woman looking out wore a pale peach sweater. Her hair was gently waved, her eyes a deep shade of blue. Rupert Dean's wife, Emelda, dead now for twenty years. She was te love of my life, he announced to Caroline, his voice so loud that people looked up.

But now she dreamed every night of lost things.

car. Remembering her kneeling the dirt, planting morning glory seeds.

Grown now, he stood in a train station or on the sidewalk beneath fluttering leaves or strode across a street. He paused in front of shop windows, or reached into his pocket for a ticket, or shaded his eyes against the sun. He'd grown from her body and now, astonishingly, he moved through the world without her. She

We were innocent once. How could it have gone so bad?

Though no one had been buried here for almost thirty years, the grass was mown by yours truly. I felt a tidy graveyard made a happy graveyard.

Looking at everything, I started to feel nauseous, as if the seventies had taken refuge here against extinction and were preparing to take over the world.

Oh, Trent and I go back a long way," I said lightly, twirling a curl of my hair about my finger and remembering its new shortness. "We met at camp as children. Sort of romantic when you think about it." I smiled at Trent's suddenly blank look.

Say what?" Jenks blurted out. "You think those moss wipes are coming back?" "I wish," I muttered. "I've got some serious hurt with their name on it.

I asked, looking at the jukebox, now totally out of place, like a British police call box on the deck of the Titanic.

Arms wrapped around me, I looked over the past boxed up and piled haphazardly about, like memories in a person's brain. It was only a matter of knowing where a thought was and dusting it off.

I wanted that feeling back—even if it was a lie. Just for a night, so I wouldn't forget how it felt until I found it again.