Nostalgia

Fifteen little blocks stood between your saved game and a family argument.

One hundred megabytes in a chunky blue square: finally, enough room for everything.

The first social status update was a handwritten sign taped to an empty digital chair.

Portable music, provided you agreed not to move like a portable person.

The tiny beige oracle that told the whole family who was interrupting dinner.

The sacred television setting that made the VCR, game console, and family peace work.

The internet used to arrive in the mailbox, shiny, free, and apparently breeding.

The afternoon the modem screamed a little faster and the whole house held its breath.

The screaming beige monster that printed your book report one agonizing dot at a time, and the perforated paper-strips you weren’t allowed to tear off too early.

You remember the fat black remote with too many buttons that somehow ran the whole living room.