When was it that knowing my feelings began to consist of finding the language for them? When was it that language itself began to have as much importance as the feelings? Once, someone described their synesthesia to me: six was bright pink, eleven was yellow, Tuesday was red, Sunday gray. Once, when I walked past a table of fruit at the farmers market, I saw the man behind the table absently reach down to move one pink nectarine among the dozens in a bin. It was an adjustment only he knew to make, in a gesture so delicately fleeting I thought of it the rest of the day. Recently, I read a book that claims there are two kinds of nostalgia. One kind of nostalgia is lyrical, the other perilous. In what the scholar calls restorative nostalgia, there is a rigid zeal to return things to what they were. In what she calls reflective nostalgia, the longing for what has been lost is sweetly enough.