Nirvana

Stepping through its beaded door was like walking into a time cloud, whiffs of marijuana and hashish pipes lined up by color in the cabinet to the right, behind which stood a hippie and his girl, with beads and long hair, who lived in the VW van parked in the rear, the one splattered with colorful peace signs like the psychedelic posters on their store’s walls, glowing under the hidden black light. Nirvana was a safe haven, offering a calm which transcended my fifteen-year-old my psyche, magnified by the freedom to wander through without shoes or purchase, unlike the neighboring stores on Union Turnpike in the heart of Queens. The place exuded the potent energy of my love generation. I wish there was a store like it here in my new neighborhood, but I suppose I’ll have to settle for the natural health food store, which offers the same sort of claim.