I saw a picture of myself from childhood,
a picture I had never seen before,
a reflection of my seven-year-old self
frozen in time for 49 years
without me even knowing
it existed.
A friend sent it to me.
“Just ran across this.
Thought you’d want to see it.”
I opened the email attachment
and looked into my own face,
recognizable, but unfamiliar.
I was sitting on a sled,
guide rope in hand,
forced to pose when really
all I wanted to do was race
down the hill
again and again.
I looked determined.
I looked like I had a
sense of purpose.
I didn’t need anybody’s
permission or approval.
I just needed to fly over
the icy crust of a
Michigan snow.
My father was in the picture
dressed in 1970s cool,
I suppose,
if 1970s cool was
Siberian Robin Hood.
My sister was there,
and the friend who sent
the picture.
I was glad to have the memory
of a day I didn’t recall,
of a time I couldn’t forget,
of a child I couldn’t remember.
I wanted to race back
through time
to warn her
not to lose her Self.
I wanted to tell her to
never seek permission,
to always trust the sled
and fly down hills at
full speed.
I wanted to tell her
to savor each moment
like ambrosia with
a fast-approaching
sell-by date.
Instead,
she told me.
© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved
Deb Moore 