Sometimes you miss the version of yourself that rocked personalized, well, everything. And you miss being in your twenties and writing poetry until dawn, eating gas station sandwiches and searching for typewriter ribbons because the words flow better when you press them onto paper.
Sometimes you look at photos from when you were 21 and all you can see are questions, covered by bravado but lurking in your eyes staring back at you. You think about what you'd say to yourself if you could, the kind of advice you'd offer and you imagine that your 21-year-old self would tell you to screw off because that's the kind of girl she is.
She is bold and laughs loudly when something is truly funny. She is prone to fits of serious overthinking. If she's drinking vodka it's going to be a long night. She is fiercely loyal. She guards her vulnerability diligently. There are times she feels like she has walked into a story that began without her and she's not quite sure how to play the role in which she has been cast.
So, instead I’d like to reach back in time and high-five myself, though she would probably roll her eyes and scoff before climbing into her Toyota Corolla, blaring Smashing Pumpkins through open windows. In the rearview mirror, however, there is a smile of acknowledgment, a secret we share, the tenderness at her sharp edges.
And in a blink she is gone.