When I was young-the time
when I never wanted to leave
my mom's hand; nostalgia was just a word-
A word which had my candy stories.

When I grew a bit older- the time
when I misconstrued my mom's hand
to a prison; nostalgia was like
gasoline poured on fire.
The more I pondered, the more I grieved.

When I started adulthood-the time
when I understood the reality,
nostalgia was not a word, but
a vehement emotion that
drenches me in tears, with a gush of air
passing through my mouth.

Littile did I know-those hands were
protecting me from evil eyes.
When I turn back and connect
the dots of nostalgia, I realize-
those warm hands helped me to resist
the cold eyes in the world.

Now, nostalgia is a place of solace for me-
A place which is warm and cozy.
My perspective towards nostalgia
always changed, but never did my mom's hand-
A hand that never let me down.