I spent a little while today looking through a box of items I saved from my youth. Almost everything in the box was from when I was younger than twenty years old.
Amongst many diaries, I found one I wrote when I was ten years old. I found my first driver’s license. There were stacks of letters I wrote to people in my life, and never sent. I touched countless journals of poetry I wrote in my youth. I scanned over love letters from people I haven’t thought of in years. I looked through several sketch books with drawings. I found a hall pass from my favorite high school teacher. I read papers I wrote about life, death and dying, and fairy tales.
I noticed how my handwriting has changed over the years, yet I could still see some similarities to my handwriting of today. I noticed the topics I wrote about then, are topics I am still trying to figure out. In the drawings, I could recognize my style, although I like to think it is a bit more refined. In the letters, I could see my compassion and caring of other people. In the poetry, as I read the first line, the words I wrote came back to me and I could recite the poem to the end.
I could see myself as the young girl, but I started to wonder. Did the young girl who packed away the items in the box, see me when she thought of herself as a woman? Would she be happy if she saw who she became?
I wish I could ask her.
