I have always liked the idea of nostalgia. It was something beautiful, probably because nostalgia is such a universal feeling and often described with smiles and aching hearts. Everyone has experienced something they treasure more than words can describe. It's usually something mundane, like the warm breeze that you felt on a summer night with friends, or yellowed photographs stashed underneath your bed, or something you confessed during a middle-school sleepover that you promised you would keep secret, or coffee-stained love letters you insist belong in frames.
Before moving halfway across the globe to the place I now call home, my friends threw a surprise goodbye party for me. They were clever enough to masquerade it as a strangers' birthday party, complete with a cake and presents and brightly-colored confetti stars, and I joined six of my closest friends in recalling our favorite memories together dancing along to cheesy music that was popular at the time.
At the time, just being in the presence of people I loved was somewhat uneventful, but whenever I look back in fond retrospect I can't help but smile to myself, no matter the occasion or social cues.
After the cake had completely disappeared and the helium balloons had sunk to the floor, I was surprised with six handwritten letters. We agreed to never say goodbye when I first broke the news of my departure just in case we crossed paths later in life — after all, we already made plans to be one another's future bridesmaids, no matter where or with whom we ended up — so the letters were nonetheless unexpected. "Open them when you get on the plane," my best friend had instructed, and despite the temptation, I agreed.
The plane ride couldn't have come sooner.
When the fateful day did arrive and I was nestled in a grimy airplane seat, I opened the bright-green envelope that concealed the first letter. A bundle of Polaroid pictures and collaborative art class doodles spilled out onto my lap, and along with it, the most heart-touching letter written in the most beautiful script I have ever seen. Whenever someone mentions the word nostalgia, I can only associate the feeling that followed the opening of the first letter: the contagious smiles captured in the crinkled instant film, the residual smell of birthday cake, the longing feeling in the pit of my stomach that came with knowing that I might never see my closest friends again.
Nostalgia is bittersweet. I can only attribute this to another anecdote that occurred during the same time frame of the one aforementioned.
The friend that coordinated the surprise party believed in the power of crystals, Tarot cards and zodiac signs so much so that she made everyone in our friend group sign up for a personalized horoscope service. We were rather reluctant, but we agreed nonetheless. She taught us that every zodiac sign is represented by a celestial body. Because my zodiac sign — Cancer — is represented by the moon, I wore the title of "Moonchild" like a crown.
Even years after moving away and unsubscribing from the horoscope service, I still feel a connection to the moon and my moon-themed nickname. Sometimes, my best friend would send me photos of the moon from her balcony in Madagascar, and I'd always send a photo back when I'd see the same moon seven hours later.
The feeling of sentimentality still lingers around me everywhere I go, like the strong-smelling perfume a certain horoscope-savvy friend of mine used to wear.
Last February, I found that I couldn't enjoy a classmate's birthday party without memories of the surprise party and vanilla birthday cake flooding my mind, being quite the opposite of an intrusion. Three weeks ago, when my teacher referred to the moon as a "satellite", I could only think about the way my group of friends stayed unchanging despite the distance between us.
Yesterday, I heard a familiarly cheesy song play on the radio in my car. I turned the volume up past the sound of deafening silence and let the memories lift me off of my feet.
