Tove Schneider

I meet up with my younger self for coffee She wants to meet in a busy cafe downtown I know she needs people surrounding her to subdue her loneliness I am on time and I order a coffee and watch her from afar walk in with her long brown hair flowing down her shoulders. She is late. As always. Her T-shirt is short and reveals glimpses of a pierced belly button. She is shy and hesitant to look me in the eyes. Her skin is glowing. I know she won’t believe me if I told her. She wears little makeup and her hair is still wet from the shower. She tells me she feels stressed and wants to travel and do all the things. She opens up her purse to look for her ID. A paper falls out. She doesn’t seem to notice. She tells me marriage is not for her, and maybe not kids either. I tell her to stop worrying. I can sense she is observing my tense face. We lock eyes for a second and she asks me with a tremble in her voice, -I will get it too, won’t I? I nod and tears starts flowing down my cheeks. She orders a glass of wine and drinks a few sips. She lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. I look at her and say, you will also have two beautiful boys that you will love endlessly. They will be stubborn, just like you. And beautiful, just like you. Her sparkle returns in her eye. -What about marriage? Yes, you will get married. It will be a roller coaster of emotions and ups and down, but you will get through it together. He sticks by your side and holds your hand in the hospital when you go in for surgery. And he will be there when you wakes up. He will make you little snacks and pour loving baths. He will try to make you laugh. I tell her she already knows him. You will have a dog that will help you heal. She is going to show you your potential and make you believe in yourself. You will have a bond that no one else has. What happens to the dog? Her senses are on high alert, and she can tell it doesn’t end well. We cry together when I tell her of her soul dog that dies too young. She for the suffering yet to come. Me from knowing the pain already. We are quiet for a moment. She picks up another cigarette and lights it. She asks hesitantly, what happens after that? What about me? Will I die young too? I show her a picture of the puppy Luna, and the kids and I say with a smile-we make it through, somehow. We hug each other and part ways. I cry, and she holds it in. I watch her walk away with a brave expression on her face. Her little piece of purse paper blowing away with the wind, no longer needing to hold what it once carried.