There is a photo of John and I with our first three children that caught me by surprise. John's hair is as dark as Belgian chocolate. Mine is curly, and we are both much thinner than we are now. I am holding my son on my hip since he is but ten months old and cannot walk.  The kids are nestled in close, as if we represent some kind of security for them. The dress my daughter is wearing is one I made for her, with a matching one for me too. But we were camping in the Laurel Highlands and I did not pack dresses for myself. Chara on the other hand wore them every chance she got. She has a band aid on her knee, which I no doubt applied to soothe her pain. Lukas has a cup, probably for collecting the tiny frogs that inhabited the woods back then. His pockets often had rocks in them, or marbles. No money. 

 

Our relationships are different now. I no longer pick out their pants, or remind them to brush their teeth. They don't depend on me for security, or cash. Truth be told some of them make more than we do. Micah can walk. Fly a plane even. Chara does not come to me for comfort, though I wish dearly that band aids still offered as much healing as they did then. Plus she and I never coordinate our clothes. 

 

If it were possible to speak to ourselves in 1986 I would be tempted to hint what was over the horizon. But we were too busy being who we were then, to respond to who we would become in 2021. Still I could mention a few things that would have made us laugh. And gasp. And bow our dark and curly heads in prayer. 

 

Which leads me to wonder if the versions of ourselves thirty five years hence have secrets for us. I expect we will have shed our gray hair and extra pounds. We will be able to run without being short of breath. There will be no money in our pockets, or band aids on our knees. If the mumbled monologue my mother gave a few hours before she died is any proof, there will be chocolate. Plus I have a funny feeling that we will be wearing matching clothes.