A memory

Dear Self,

I had this memory of us when you were younger. I close my eyes, and I can smell the salt air and the tightness of the two French braids we had carefully weaved down either side of our head. It's still early enough that the morning dew has soaked through our Converse sneakers.

You loved those shoes; they were brown with the Converse symbol in pink. We'd wear them with patterned socks, and sometimes you would stare down and smile because just those shoes made you happy. But I digress.

We feel subdued after the morning yoga session and wonder if the older boy also attending the retreat noticed your body in your valour-flared pink lounge pants with the matching sweater, All of which correspond nicely to your favourite sneakers. He attends private school, and you've only ever hung out with him in a group. He laughs a lot, and you like the sound of his laugh. Your best friend has confessed her love for him, never giving you a chance. Unsure how to navigate that situation, you've been using humour, your fallback. Make them laugh, and they'll continue to want you around, even if it means exaggerating a story or two. Because you don't want him, or your friend, to know you watch him, you tease him mercilessly. You pretend he's not worth your time.

We're thinking all this, standing alone at the start of a circular path with large stepping stones. You try to remember what you are supposed to be doing. The instructor said to walk. What did she call this place? A Labyrinth. She instructed that we should walk the path alone, and as we do, we could think or choose to empty our thoughts. You take a deep breath, and you begin to follow the stones. For a while, you are fascinated by the bouncy vivid green moss that has grown on the damp surface of the rocks. You'll always love moss; just the presence of it will bring you comfort; perhaps it is because of this moment.

As you walk, our thought returns to the boy and the night before. After dinner, our group had a bonfire, and we said vespers and sang songs. He strummed his guitar and sang loudly. Afterwards, when the adults went to bed, we all snuck out the window of one or the other girl's room onto the roof of the house we rented for the weekend. We all sat together and laughed. You made them laugh. Now you think back to the things you said with embarrassment. You rethink every word and every touch and wonder how they were interpreted by the others, by him. When it became cold, he wrapped his jacket around your shoulders. You saw your friend's face and slid a little further away from him, and you made a joke about respecting your personal space. We may have said something along the lines of calling him “Feely Mcfeelerson.”

You waited, so did he, and so did she. All three of us hoped for a moment alone, but none were willing to leave the others together. We laid back on the roof, he's smoking a joint, and you are staring at the stars. She's talking too much, rambling; she does that when nervous. You feel his hand move towards ours, just a light caress but the heat from him sends a rush through our body. We try to look at him to see if it was intentional, but he won't make eye contact. His hand rests there next to ours, barely touching. Eventually, you have to give in. The staff expect us to be up early for breakfast. We yawn and say that we're going to bed. She's about to say she's not tired yet when he stands to follow us inside. He's tired too. As we climb back in the window, his hand rests on our lower back, supporting us. “Goodnight,” you say, looking up at him wide-eyed. “Night,” he responds with a small smile as your friend tumbles through the window behind you. She's tired now too.

At breakfast, he eats with someone else. Our friend wants to talk about him. How cute he is and how he was looking at her last night. You nod, agreeing there is something there. You joke about snobby private school kids to show he's not your type. But he was our type. He was a good guy, and he turned out to be a good man. He's married now. I see the pictures on Facebook. You would laugh at me; I'm officially the parent on Facebook that you used to be so embarrassed for. After that weekend, You only see him in passing but never connect again. Your friend kept trying, calling information for his home phone number and prank-calling him mercilessly to hear his voice. The one other time you speak to him, you will make fun of his glasses. You are trying to be funny, but he gets this look of hurt on his face that makes you wish you could take back your words.

That's it; that will be his only presence in your life. Yet that weekend stands in my mind, and I think of it often. Not because I care about that man now. Not even because you genuinely cared about him then. But because our life won't stay so carefree. You are only fifteen, just a baby, which I know will offend you. But spending the weekend at a Buddhist Retreat with a cute boy and no worries, that's, unfortunately, a scarce and memorable time in our life. What you worry about now will mean nothing in only a short time from this instant.

As you finish walking the labyrinth, arriving in the middle, you think about how you'd like to have one someday. You'd walk it every morning after yoga and let your mind rest. You'd think happy thoughts and feel the freedom of completely forgetting what homework assignment is due on Monday. This thought reminds me of you this morning, and it's that feeling that I yearn for so deeply. So I think I will build our meditation labyrinth. We own land now with plenty of space. I will commit to that thought we had long ago because I miss being you. I miss having a clear mind to focus on meaningless things. I miss you because you are silly, stunning, and very clever. You are everything your insecurities tell you that you're not, and you'll spend your whole life not believing it, putting yourself down and wishing you were the younger version of yourself. It's time to stop that.

I promise to be more like you.

With gratitude,

Caroline Robertson

P.S. We're married, and changing your name will be a nightmare, but our husband will believe we are fated to be together because our new initials will spell CAR.