Two People Looking in Opposite Directions by Lee Summers
The printer blinked. Paper jam. Out of ink.
In a blur of white lines, concrete, and trees, a little
boy– about the age I remember most–stared at
me from the backseat of his parent’s SUV. I wanted
to tell him not to ask for too much; that happiness
is not a town around the bend where we pull over
and settle down one day; that in all likelihood–
if you’re lucky–happiness is probably a few days
here and there, scattered like birdseed over years
of heartache and despair. I wanted to tell him that
being in love was the greatest, and the worst, thing
in the world–and gods are good, but they are not real.
I wanted to tell him to slow down, and not be in a hurry;
that nothing stays the same for very long. I wanted
to tell him that hope is really a word we use instead
of help; that ultimately we are nothing but chance,
and the choices we make along the way. I wanted to
tell him that death comes to all of us too soon; that
humility and awe are the only tools he will ever need.
As the printer whirred and snapped its teeth–waiting
for me to replace the ink cartridge–eyes, belonging
to the little boy’s mother, met mine in the rearview
mirror and I quickly wanted to add that I didn’t know
what I was talking about, and not to listen to me.
– Bison Jack
Her Two Cents
If you could travel back in time with one piece of information, would you tell yourself? Advice about potential heartbreaks? Encouragement of certain behaviors? Stock tips and investment ideas? As much as we may want to re-shape the past so as to alter our present, would younger versions of ourselves even listen to or comprehend the words we so terribly believe we should say?
