My Younger Self

My Younger Self

I went for a walk with my younger self today.

She didn’t bring her phone or have somewhere to be at the end of the hour.

She didn’t have me penciled into her Google Calendar, or have to make plans weeks in advance.

She didn’t ask what we were doing after we graduate, or when we had last spoken to our brother.

Instead, she stood at my side without outward curiosity.

She stopped to point out the caterpillar crossing the road at a pace that pained me, fascinated by its little movements.

She asked if we could go down and perch by the stream, to imagine we were elsewhere.

She laughed so loud I could hear it echo in the chill of the winter air, warming my heart in its old familiarity.

She didn’t worry about our grades or the job search that feels all-consuming.

She didn’t intermittently ask how much longer to go or where we were headed.

She didn’t notice that the look on my face was filled with sadness for a version that felt faint.

Instead, she told stories that made me feel alive.

She rambled about teaching brother to take his first steps, a moment I had forgotten.

She whimsically told me the very storyline her Barbies were to live out that night, for the 100th time.

She fixated on animal tracks we passed, carefully picturing the creature that might have preceded us that day, crafting his life story.

I went for a walk with my younger self today, and she brought out a version of me I wanted to stay.

She reminded me that whimsy and wonder used to be innate, rather than something I had to find—and that it’s far more important to be humble and kind.

I went for a walk with my younger self today, and she reminded me that we were going to be just fine.

So now I notice the bugs, and the breeze, and the trees, and rekindle that laughter that is deep down in me.

When we went to part at the end of our path, she squeezed me tight—that little girl, my sweet empath.