Nostalgia—what a lovely word, especially for softies like us, who carry entire lifetimes in our memories, who feel the ache and warmth of yesterdays not just in our hearts, but in each and every moment, and in the quietness where all thoughts settle. The older we get, the more of it we gather—like autumn leaves pressed between the pages of a beloved old book, crinkled and faded, but forever fragrant with meaning.
My daughter, curious and full of youth’s bright fire, once asked me a question that startled me with its simplicity and pierced me with its depth: “What were the best five years of your life, Mum?” She looked at me with eyes wide and expectant, as if I held in my answer some secret roadmap to happiness.
In those days, I was more spirited, filled with a hope that the horizon always promised something more. I smiled, perhaps too quickly, and with a kind of cheerful defiance against time itself, I replied, “That’s easy—the next five.”
I remember the way she laughed, as only a daughter does—light and melodic, with trust that her mother still had dreams blooming on the vine. And perhaps I did. Back then, it was easier to believe that joy was not a visitor of the past, but a resident of the future.
But now, as I sit here, wrapped in a silence that is not empty but full of memories, I find myself revisiting that question—not to revise my answer, but to finally understand it.
Was it those golden years when my children’s tiny hands fitted perfectly into mine, and I was their whole world? Or perhaps it was the time when the house was filled with laughter and the slam of doors and the scent of pancakes on Saturday mornings, when love was loud and messy and everywhere?
Was it when I danced barefoot in the kitchen with her father, both of us younger, with skin unlined by sorrow and eyes drunk with dreams, the music of our lives still unwritten but bursting to begin?
Or could it have been the quiet nights, after the kids had grown and gone, when the solitude no longer felt lonely but sacred—when I would sit by the window with a cup of tea, the moon my old friend, and think, “We did well, didn’t we?”
Or was it when I witnessed my parents growing older, and was there with them, reminiscing about our past years?
Now, in the soft twilight of my years, I understand that the best five years of my life weren’t one span of time, but fragments scattered across decades—stitched together by moments of laughter, of tears, of ordinary miracles that we only recognise in hindsight.
If I could answer her again, I might still say, “The next five,” not out of optimism, but out of reverence—for the truth is, every year we are given becomes the best when we fill it with love, with meaning, with memory. Even now, with slower steps and a quieter home, I find wonder in the whisper of rain on the window, in the way the sunlight dances on all the old photos, in the gentle ache of remembering.
Sometimes, I remember the way their laughter used to ring through the house like wind chimes on a spring morning—light, unpredictable, and capable of lifting even the heaviest gloom from the corners of my heart. I remember tying their shoelaces before school, their little fingers resting on my shoulder as they chattered about the colour of their crayons and the unfairness of sharing biscuits or having to wake up early.
I remember the nights when one—or both—would come tiptoeing into our room after a bad dream. “Mummy, I had a nightmare,” they would whisper, voices barely louder than the night air. I would lift the blanket without a word, wrapping them in the familiar safety of my arms. In those quiet hours, when the world was asleep, I was everything they needed. I’d hum lullabies half-remembered from my own childhood and feel their breathing slow against my chest, as though peace itself had curled up with us.
Then there were those summers I spent at my parents’ place, watching the two generations intertwine, each and every second so precious that all I wanted to do was close my eyes and lock them in my heart.
The time my son learned to ride a bicycle—how he would race ahead, legs pumping hard, fearless and wild, while she followed, cautious but determined. I ran behind them both, my heart torn between pride and panic. When they finally made it to the end of the street—hair tangled in the wind, cheeks flushed with joy—they turned back in unison and yelled, “Did you see us, Mama?”
Oh, how I saw them.
And the day my son left for university, the suitcase heavier than he was, trying not to let the tears fall. She stood beside me, unusually quiet, watching her brother walk away into his new world. When it was her turn some years later, she hugged me too tightly, understanding how alone I would be, and the way her eyes lingered on mine a moment longer, saying everything the words couldn’t.
Now, the house is quieter, yes, but it holds their echoes. The kitchen still smells faintly of cinnamon on cold mornings, and sometimes I catch myself setting more cups of tea than I need. The sound of children’s laughter outside the window can stop me in my tracks, as if, for a fleeting second, time has reversed its flow. It holds the memories of my parents. And I feel interwoven so beautifully between a life well spent and waiting for more to come.
When they all call me—in their voices, I hear every version of them: the children they were, the people they’ve become, the heartbeats of my life.
So perhaps the best five years were scattered like stardust across the sky of my life, impossible to gather all at once but glowing forever in memory. And perhaps, just perhaps, the next five will surprise me still—with tender mornings, unexpected visits, and more pages to turn in this beautiful, ever-unfolding story.
DoubleSpeak 