Dear Past Me,

Congratulations. You are flying high and holding on tight. From the perspective of those on the ground, it seems like you could be floating up there forever, gripping the strings of a colorful bunch of balloons, symbols of success in a society that requires outward markers. One of yours is filled with the confidence of a post-graduation job as a public defender, where you will save the lives of your clients and probably fix the entire criminal justice system while you’re at it.

I want to go back in time. Back to when you and I were friends. Thirty years ago, when we were neighbors living at home with our families.

My mum passed away that year. The same year we moved into the house next door to yours. You always said our crossing of paths was “meant to be.”

I was nursing my three-week-old baby when the phone rang. It was Jim, the husband of my dearest friend Marjy. He called to tell me she was dead.

Poof. Gone. Just like that.

A week before Amy Coney Barrett is confirmed to be a Supreme Court Justice, cementing a 6-3 conservative majority with the potential of overturning most landmark decisions protecting queer and female reproductive rights, my roommate and I drive aimlessly around St. Louis in her tiny, two-doored, baby blue Mini Cooper.

I snapped Amelia’s car seat into the stroller and fanned out the visor to keep out the sun and the wind, which were both persistent. Amelia slept undisturbed. I put on my sunglasses, pushed my hair out of my eyes, and headed for the zoo’s entrance.

We began with Martha the cat, Nashville, Tennessee, 1974. Mary and I had not yet met, but Muffy, a mutual friend, was helping Mary find a place to leave her cat, Martha, for a week or two during Christmas. Jeffrey and I lived in the country, and Muffy delivered Martha to us. Three weeks later, Martha was still with us.

February 22

We celebrate my son's eighth birthday. To my delight and surprise, it goes off without a hitch. Usually, weeks of anxiety precede his birthdays. Inevitably, great expectations turn to disappointment and anger when things don't go exactly as planned. Not infrequently, parties end with his screaming at his friends, stomping upstairs, slamming his door as I apologize and usher bewildered parents out of the house.

“I’m broken,” I tell Tamar. My breath is ragged. My heart races. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” she replies.

I jump off my bike and sit down by the side of the trail. Digging my fingernails into my skin, I draw blood to distract from the pain.

April 18: At the desk of Highway Contract Route 74, I survey my daily load of letters, flats, and parcels. Utility bills, unemployment checks, hardware and furniture catalogues, scores of envelopes from the offices of politicians and Department of Motor Vehicles. And thin, white, padded envelopes the size of my palm all the way from China and Krygyztsan to California, pill bottles, baby toys, pet food, books, clothing returns (including Spanx), even a pyramid of plastic Tupperware wrapped tightly in transparent film with a set of stamps stuck on top and a tub of laundry detergent marked Priority Mail—Signature Required.

My dad sat in his favorite chair looking at me, his eyes glistening and unable to focus. He could no longer remember my name or form a coherent sentence. Suspenders held up the pants that no longer fit his waist because he had become so frail and thin. Dementia had stolen his mind and Parkinson’s disease had weakened his body. When his eyes were finally able to focus on me, I thought I saw a glimmer of recognition, but with dementia, you can never be sure.

Paris is still in confinement, and I’m still jogging early every morning. Each day, I get a little more daring, moving well beyond my permitted one kilometer from home. I pretend not to notice when a police car cruises past me on a side street. I look straight ahead when it stops by a man walking on the opposite pavement, breathing relief that they pick him, not me. We are only allowed out for one hour a day, and without the correct paperwork to prove our identity, the fines are steep. At worst, we will be thrown in jail.

I spent the morning weed whacking the pathways between my farm vegetable rows. Even in the slightly cooler morning hours, the heat was stifling, so I opted for shorts. Weed whacking done, I looked at myself, covered in dirt and grass clippings, dripping in sweat. I could hardly see my legs. Best not to head back to the house until lunchtime when I could hop in the shower. The tomatoes needed weeding, so I set to work pulling the lamb’s quarters and nutsedge from around the growing tomato vines.

Months into the pandemic, confined to our house by COVID-19 restrictions and the unrelenting Texas summer, I followed my restless eight-year-old into the pantry where the bulk of our interaction took place. We argued over what qualified as a healthy snack.

Brrring! The bell screeches, telling us that lunch is here.

A herd of tiny, boisterous bodies rushes into the open courtyard, waiting to eat, play, laugh, and talk together. Amongst them, a large group of girls congregate, buzzing with renewed excitement, eager to witness the daily ritual. I follow my friend, Githushka, out the door, rushing to get a prime spot.

Shapeshifting has been a facet of nearly every human culture, explored in art and literature through the ages. These human-animal entities can be glorious and divine, or sinister and grotesque. Typically, they exist symbolically—either the transformation or the resulting state is significant in some way. My own experience with shapeshifting was more clinically than artistically rendered, and I am still hazy on the message my experience was meant to convey.

You haven’t been home in a while. How long, I can’t quite say, but long enough for the stillness to solidify. Dust amasses discretely, until one day it forms a visible shell. I hear you brushing it off surfaces, coughing, groaning in disgust. There are many surfaces. But you’re determined.

Under a dripping canopy of tall oaks, I stumbled around a New Jersey cemetery scanning names engraved on headstones. I knew my father was there somewhere, but exactly where was a mystery. No one from the cemetery had returned my calls, the office was deserted, and there wasn’t a soul in sight to ask. There was nothing to do but start at one end and amble up and down the walkways that snaked through the graves.

By the first day of grade twelve, I can’t handle living in this shithole town anymore. Summer: a blur of house parties, handsy boys and men, and sleepless nights. I butt my cigarette against the brown brick façade, march into the guidance counsellor’s office and say, “If I can’t finish first term, I quit.” I graduate in January.

Claremont, California, circa 2005 (or anytime between 1955 and 2008):

My father tells me my mother smiled at something he said today. To mark the occasion, I take this mental snapshot, underexposed, milky black and white. She is silhouetted against the window in front of the herb garden she has let die.

“To tell or not tell?” I have been grappling with this question for years. After looking at it from all angles and analyzing the potential consequences of both options, I have finally concluded that it is best to “tell.” The question has to do with whether I disclose an important family secret, revealed to me by my mother ten years ago, or keep it to myself, which will amount to burying it for good, never to surface again.