Pieces of Life I Still Carry

Some days memories don’t just visit me, they flood in like they’ve been waiting just beneath the surface.

A song in a grocery store. A smell in a hallway. A random object sitting in my house that suddenly transports me somewhere else entirely. Before I know it, I’m no longer standing in the present. I’m everywhere I’ve ever been.

I find myself thinking about the people who are no longer here. Not just remembering them, but missing them in a way that feels physical, like something in the world shifted and never quite shifted back. There are moments when I still reach for them in my mind, like I could still call them, still visit them, still sit across from them and laugh the way we used to.

I spent about 30 years of my life in the Detroit area before moving to Northern Michigan 26 years ago. Detroit is where I grew up. It’s where my childhood memories live. It’s where so many of my lifelong friendships were built. It’s where the people who still text me just to ask how I’m doing are. The people who still hold pieces of my heart.

Even after all these years, I don’t think I’ve ever felt completely whole since leaving.

I can’t go back to being a teenager at Riverside Arena Roller Skating, even though sometimes I wish I could. I remember waiting all week for Friday night, counting down the days until I could walk through those doors, lace up my skates, and see the people I couldn’t wait to be around. I can still hear the music and laughter echoing through the rink. I can still remember the excitement of being young and believing life stretched endlessly ahead of us.

I can’t go back to my 20s either. Those weekends when my place was always full, when life felt loud and alive and unpredictable. The nights spent at Harpos Concert Theatre. The friendships that seemed unbreakable. There were difficult times too, but when I look back, the good far outweighs the bad.

If someone offered me a time machine, I wouldn’t use it to change anything.

I’d use it for one more night.

One more night to laugh until my stomach hurt. One more song. One more conversation. One more chance to hug the people we’ve lost and tell them I love them one last time.

I can’t go back to when my kids were babies. But oh, to have one more day holding them in my arms when they were little, to hear those tiny voices and feel the weight of them asleep on my shoulder, I would treasure every second.

And I can’t go back to when my parents were alive.

But if I could, I would simply say thank you.

Thank you for having me.

Thank you for letting me be here on this earth.

Because of you, I got to experience this life. I got to know extraordinary people. I got to love and be loved. I got to have children, friendships, music, memories, heartbreak, laughter, and moments that shaped who I became.

And then there’s California.

I was born there. My parents moved me to Michigan when I was almost 2 years old, so I don’t have memories of growing up there the way I do of Riverside, Harpos, and the Detroit area that shaped so much of who I became. But somehow, California has always lived inside of me.

It’s hard to explain to people who haven’t felt it. Even though I was so young when we left, I’ve always felt like a piece of me stayed behind. Like part of my story is still there, waiting for me. I don’t know if it’s because that’s where my life began, because so much of my family is there, or because it’s become tied to all the things I long for as I’ve gotten older. Maybe it’s all of it.

I think about my cousins often. Some of them I haven’t seen in decades. Life happened. We grew up, raised families, worked jobs, paid bills, and somehow the years slipped away faster than any of us expected. But distance has never erased the love I have for them. I wish I could sit around a table with them, listen to their stories, laugh until our sides hurt, and make up for all the lost time.

And then there’s my mom.

She wanted her ashes to be in California.

That wish sits in my heart every single day. It isn’t just another task on a list. It feels like an unfinished promise. I need to bring her home, to the place she wanted to be. Not only for her, but for me too. I think carrying out that wish would bring a sense of peace and closure I’ve been searching for.

I wish life were easier sometimes.

I wish taking that trip didn’t require so much planning and money and waiting for the “right time.” I wish I could simply go. Hug the people I’ve missed. Stand in the places connected to my beginnings. Lay my mom to rest where she wanted to be.

Maybe that’s why California still calls to me after all these years.

Because it’s more than a place.

It’s family.

It’s roots.

It’s unfinished goodbyes.

It’s the beginning of my story.

And maybe, in some small way, it’s the piece of myself I’ve been trying to find my way back to all along.

Life looks different now.

It’s concerts instead of living rooms. Quick hugs instead of entire weekends together. “We should get together soon” instead of actually finding the time to do it.

We grow up. We work. We carry responsibilities. We lose people. We lose time.

And somehow, without meaning to, the spaces between us grow wider.

But this isn’t regret.

I don’t regret the life I have now.

Because this life has brought me amazing people too.

I’ve met incredible friends through music. Through the bands we’ve loved and supported. Through standing in crowded venues singing every word with strangers who somehow became family.

I’ve met people through concerts and through TikTok. As funny as that sounds, some of those connections have become real friendships that mean the world to me.

I wouldn’t change any of them.

The truth is, every chapter of my life has given me people to love.

Some stayed for decades.

Some were only meant to walk beside me for a season.

Some are gone far too soon.

And some found me exactly when I needed them most.

I carry all of them with me.

So maybe nostalgia isn’t really about wanting to live in the past forever.

Maybe it’s about gratitude.

Gratitude for having people worth missing.

For having memories worth revisiting.

For having songs that transport us back to who we once were.

And for knowing that even as life changes, love doesn’t disappear.

It becomes part of us.

Some days, nostalgia isn’t about wanting to relive the past forever. It’s just wanting one more night, one more song, and one more hug from the people who helped make us who we are.

Peace, Love and Loud Music,

Mickey

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-AFHtZ5Or1U