In Response to George Bogin's "Nineteen"

I wonder about regret sometimes.  
This "grass is always greener," sepia-toned, magic "if," that can take hold.  


Perhaps seeing a ray of light with "dust in the sunbeams"activates this memory.  
Perhaps an argument with a spouse, a slammed door - and suddenly you are face-to-face with "the one that got away."  


Sometimes a song with lyrics and a dissonant golden voice will conjure the ghost.  
Most often it is a scent that triggers the golden zone when everything was perfect. 

But was it?  
What brings you back?  
What triggers the healthy hooping "I AM" of pride in our age? 

The pause in a glance at your sullen mate as you walk back through the door and embrace.  
Holding on, feeling the grasp of here, now.  
Smelling the scent of today.  
Looking over his shoulder at the dust on the shelf in the dappled sun light.  
As you walk with grace into old age.