A friend from college had presented her with a bundle of letters she had written back in college days. She enjoyed reliving the experiences but was struck with the thought of talking to her younger self.
What would she say?
It was hard to confront the girl who wrote those letters, to admit how
superficial, shallow and pretentious she was.
But of course she is me. Or
rather, my younger self. Once in a while, there is a spark, the hint of a mature
voice, which is why I didn't toss the whole mess of them.
If only my older
self could put my arm around this girl who is now a stranger, this skinnier,
baby-faced version of me, and say, "The things you're obsessing about? Not
important."
Would I tell her what is in store for her? "You'll be married to
a man you love, who loves you, for at least 22 years. You will forge a
meaningful career you never expected."
Would I dare tell her the other
things? "Your stomach will lurch as you offer your child toxic chemicals in an
effort to save her life. Your pulse will pound as drills open up her skull. Your
heart will break to see her horizons limited."
This younger me might swallow
hard and say, "Maybe I won't have kids."
Then I would say, "Having daughters
will be like opening the door to a room you didn't know existed and finding it
filled with a light so bright you think it could blind you, except what it will
really do is make you see everything clearly."
And of course those words
would convince her that the years to come would not only be bearable, they would
be full of joy and suffused with beauty.
I was dumbstruck by the beauty of her writing and did my best to read the column to LO, there in the kitchen, where we were at the island. After I finally succeeded in reading it to her, I remarked, "Pretty good writing," and fled the kitchen in search of a tissue.
"Pretty good, huh?" She said to my back. She inspected her cuticles. "You're bawling."
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