For me, it’s Nana’s pancakes, thin and oiled well. That distinct moth-y smell of her closet and scary wallpaper. Movies from DVD cases after careful selection made on a heavily stained carpet video store. The “All That” Nick. The tingling between my shoulders from being wrapped in a tight cocoon of cheap Chinese mink blankets. The siren bikes along Swanson Road. The dirty plastic bakery tassels that greet and bid you farewell. 

It’s the glow of 5 p.m., that’s the colour of recollection. 

Defined as a sense of longing or yearning for the past, ‘nostalgia’ derives from two Greek words: Nostos which means ‘homecoming’, and Algos meaning ‘pain’. I also read somewhere that one can become seriously ill from missing home. Passing the halfway mark of the year, I feel like that volleyball Wilson, adrift in this thick swell of missing home. Ironically, I miss all the things I used to complain about. Blasting radios from grey skylines with red headlights became Café Polo coffee cups, clinging in satisfaction against their ceramic saucers (mean cookies, though). I’ll forever miss video store trips. I miss waiting to be squashed on the 4:30 p.m. Henderson to Massey bus. I even miss the little grumpy lady who drove it. 

However, without moving I would’ve stayed unchallenged and stationary. I know that without these nostalgic hues that surrounded this confused little girl, who simultaneously dressed for all four weather types—I wouldn’t know all that I do now. I wouldn’t feel that much closer to my grandparents than I do now, who reworked their entire lives in the hopes of furthering opportunities for their children. Oceans away from familiar sands, but creating homes away from home as a greater investment.