Hey, it's Major. What poems have you wanted to send to a friend or a loved one to help them slow down?

We want you to send us your selections for a series of upcoming episodes.

Head to slowdown show.org slash community to submit

or head to our Instagram at Slowdown Show to learn more.

I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown. Occasionally I pretend to resist feelings of nostalgia, a song in a grocery store that typically has me humming in the owls, I tune out.

At a party, I walk away from a circle of friends discussing their favorite movies, a topic that once sparked exciting

debates about mizonsen. Every moment with my children was precious, yet I have banned myself from sharing favorite stories as a parent.

Somehow, I got it in my mind that remembrances of things past prevented me from standing fully in the

here and now, that musings about foregone events would eclipse any potential value I placed in the present.

Then, last month, I attended a school reunion and sneakerball.

Seeing the gently aged faces of old classmates,

whom I have not seen in many years,

melted my cold stairs cast toward the past.

All decked in their finest, I relished our spirit of celebration

on the dance floor, so evident in our smiles and bodies.

The seconds, minutes, hours, and years spun like jewels above our heads.

Today's poem lives in the remnants

of a time that long ago shaped me,

my music, my sense of fashion, my joy.

This is a poem by Deborah Marcort, a story from the 80s. That could never happen again in that house on

Brookdale Road three blocks from the red river.

Where a pack of neighborhood girls love to ring my doorbell

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