I met my 18 year old self in a cafe
She was wearing Doc Martens. So was I. Mine were black and hers were vegan leather. Of course. She was waiting for me by the time I got there, she had a matcha balanced in her silver-ringed hands. She looked deep in thought. As I walked up to her, I tried to take stock as quickly as possible, so as not to freak her out. I remember how much terror plagued her. How much she hated being seen. I’d chosen a quiet cafe, not too many people. I’d let her have the first go at conversation. I’d wait. I meet her where she was. She looked at me with wide eyes, and I finally understood that comment about me being doe-eyed when surprised. I almost laughed at the thought, but instead said, “Hi. What do you think?” She burst into a raucous laugh, the very mirror of mine, of our mother’s. She looked back at me, her eyes returned from the stars, and said, “you’re thinner than me.” I gawked, and replied, “You care about that?” She shrugged, and let me look at her rings, all from Etsy, or Clocks and Colours she said. I decided to be brave and ask her, “How is Zhanta?”
The puzzled smile on her face nearly kills me, because - of course - she doesn’t know. I want her tells me he’s good, he plays heaps of soccer and golf, that Taonga is growing like a weed, that Thuli is waiting for her at home, they’re going to watch a movie tonight. I want to hear that everything is as I would want to have left it. But she says, “He’s good. Everyone’s good, same old same old.” Because there is no '“for granted” and she attaches no deeper meaning to the quotidian because she doesn’t need to. She tells , rather sheepishly that I look older; that she likes my locs. She’s ecstatic about the plethora of tattoos. She tells me quite a bit about herself, and how she hopes I’m better than her, and that she finally “got it right”. She talked about The Secret History, and A Thousand Splendid Suns, and we commiserated on our departure from the stories of Rick Riordan to the more non-fictional, based on her preparation for school, and college. She hasn’t started her applications yet. She looks guilty after she admits her own happiness. Did I mention, she is seated in a corner booth - leaving the outside chair for me?
It’s curious to me that I should meet her like this. And I ask what she thought I’d be like. With a coy smile, she says, “Well, I’d hoped we would grow a tiny bit more…” I let her have that one. We’re both still wearing platform boots. She admits that she had thought I’d be more “properly” dressed. That she thought I’d have a masters degree, or be enrolled somewhere rigorous. She was delighted that I was a photographer, a creative. But she was sad that I wasn’t more of a philosopher. It was, I believe, the most honest I could have expected her to be. And I tell her it gets better, of course it gets better. That I would help her if I could, but I have to stay where I am. Otherwise she doesn’t make it. Otherwise, we are never one. I warn her to stay away from Capricorns, and she laughs because she thinks I’m joking. I tell her to stop smoking. I tell her to give her friends space. I tell her, kindly, to look inward, but live outward. To allow herself to feel. I tell her to hug and kiss every member of her family every single day. And I try very hard not to cry. And she is me, so she knows it. She says, “Don’t cry, it’s okay.” I look at her, tears streaming, with some mix of worry and deep gratitude. I wipe one side of my face, show her the reflection of the salty water on the back of my hand and say. “This is just water. Sometimes we need to cry. It’s not an act of shame. Not some sign of weakness. It’s just water. Water has memory. Listen to it.”
She gawks. The emotion in my voice made it sound harsher than I’d meant. Now she starts to cry. I put my head in my hands, and start to laugh. A gentle chuckle at first, then we are both roaring, heads thrown back, throats to the skies, and I love her, and I hug her, and I miss her even though she is in my arms. And as I turn to go, embracing her for the last time, she whispers, “I’m really glad you’re still here.”
ok so I did NOT expect to write this today. but this is a story of memory, of water, of emotion, and of love. for self, for others…all of it. I am proud of this piece because it was stream of consciousness, you’re seeing it just after the thoughts have made themselves written, then digital. hope you enjoy
x
TC