Crossroads

By Helga Lockheart

I met a younger version of myself yesterday. She wore my old smile like a bright, reckless coat, and her eyes were still lit with the maps of places we’d go. She asked me, “Did we do it? Did we become who we said we’d be?” I hung my head. My mouth held only silence like an old coin I’d forgotten the value of. Have we? I don’t know anymore. Somewhere between birthdays and paychecks my dreams grew soft, folded themselves into corners, or slipped behind the dresser like missing socks. My memories blur like ink under water. The face I wear now feels borrowed. I look at her, at me, and wonder if she recognizes the stranger standing in her future.

By Helga Lockheart