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Your sausage McMuffin with egg didn't change your receipt did the sausage McMuffin with egg extra value meal includes a hash brown and a small coffee for just $5 only at McDonald's for a limited time.
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Prices and participation may vary. I'm Maggie Smith and this is the Slowdown. Hundreds of years ago, nostalgia was a diagnosable medical condition. Johannes Hofer, a 17th century Swiss physician, named the condition, which he identified in homesick soldiers, the gnost in nostalgia means homecoming the alga means pain. Symptoms of nostalgia among Swiss soldiers included melancholy, malnutrition, sleepiness, brain fever, and hallucinations. Hofer's idea of nostalgia as an illness is the pain of not being able to go home. But home can be a place or a time or a person. Home can even be a version of yourself, a version you miss and would love to get back to. I joke that I can be nostalgic about a moment while it's happening. That might be the writer in me. Part of me is in the moment, and part of me is already thinking about it from a distance and seeking the language to write about it. Thanks to technology, I have nostalgia at my fingertips at any moment of any day. Shutterfly wants to show me what my life looked like 11 years ago today. Facebook wants to show me my memories over the years. My photo library on my phone offers up highlights and algorithmically selected moments from the past. My point is, if I wanted to forget about a time, a place, or a person, my devices won't let me look. There are my children on their first day of school several years ago. There's my son's grin with his front teeth missing. There's my daughter learning how to ride a bike. Today's poem beautifully captures the pain of distance, of longing, of wanting to be somewhere or with someone when you can't.
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Nostalgia by Matthew Minicucci the worst part of it is that I've forgotten your face, or the idea that each tide was a slender finger pulling at these knots loose, and then left to work on another day lost at sea. Love is a logogram less than fewer still a word made nothing more than cotter mark on starboard hard port. I left all those years ago. Sometimes I dream of my own Sorry our own great rooted bed shaped from something still alive. Euryclea means broad fame and that's a sandy pit if you ask me. It's an island beautiful as a scarred oxen's back sewed with lash and eyes. I saw something of you the other day in this glass of magic vase filled with smoke's children. There's that dress you wore, I said to no one in particular. There's that blue that never bled to red wine dark in its never knocked arrow waves. And suddenly you're the moon again, lost in reflection sea. I follow the light to nowhere as I wander through the sipped sleeve because because you walked the stairs that night before I left after we heard the rain spill like grain from a split sack. You walked in front of me just above the cochineal stars bright bald ember fashioned still spear. I think of nothing else but you. It's true. It's the worst part of forgetting all this. Remembering the Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter and find us on Instagram at slowdown show and blueskylowdownshow.org hi, it's Maggie. The Slowdown helps you discover new poems and revisit old favorites. You can help us continue showcasing poetry from a diverse swath of authors by making a tax deductible gift. Head to slowdownshow.org donate today.
