I met my younger self for coffee.

She arrives five minutes early but apologizes for running late. I’m on time, but not in a rush.

She orders a latte- one pump of vanilla, one of hazelnut. I smile- some things never change.

She asks if we ever got into that Ivy League school. I tell her no, but we found a place with a tight-knit community and we got three undergrad degrees and a Masters. Her eyes go wide; she hasn’t thought to dream like that yet.

She’s afraid for the state of the world— she’s planning to go to her first real protest this weekend. I sigh. It’s not much better now. She’s heartened to hear that I plan protests for a living now, that my day job is trying to make the world a better place. My heart aches; the job isn’t close to done yet.

She spots the rings on my hands— tears up when she sees Grampa’s, she knows that if I’m wearing it it’s because he isn’t anymore. Holds up her right hand to show off the one our mom gave her for her birthday last month— it’s still glimmering on my own finger. And she wrinkles her nose at the diamond on my left hand: she can’t imagine loving anyone enough to say yes to that, at least not outside of books. We split a buttered croissant while I tell her that she’ll get a love story that’s just as good as anything she’s read.

She doesn’t have to ask if we’re still writing— even at her age, she knows we’ll never give that up. Still, I show her our shelf of published titles, the dust jackets with our pen name on them. She slides a notebook out of her bag— she’s working on the notes that will become the first real novel we ever wrote.

We go in opposite directions when we leave, and I feel lighter and heavier at the same time. I may not be exactly what she expected, but I hope I can continue to make her proud.

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