Ship of fools

At some point along the way I began to start picturing the child you once were while you were talking to me. Years in classrooms caused me to idly picture- but never to design or destine- the adult each little person in there would perhaps become. I remember my sister describing this feeling- and I remember it too after a season of chopping my own wood- a way of looking at the world with an ax in tow- measuring everything around by how hard it would be to chop through. It made me believe, briefly, that I started seeing people alongside their former and future selves the same time I started teaching, but then memories of my own former me come flooding back- a walk along rocky beaches in Halibut Point, angry at the adults around me for something, vowing to never be like "that" when I was a grown up. At four, I was going to get spanked for something so I dashed out the door, certain I could outrun my parents, confusing my little legs with some version of me yet to come. I remember myself annoyed at those big hairy parents for not stalking the foods I wanted, for tickling me too hard. I made solemn promises to the future me to fill my refrigerator with berries and gingerbread cake and to leave the hopelessly ticklish alone. I was going to know just what to say if my child was crying, and I would never say "don't cry." And she does, that little me, feel like another person kicking up the rocks next to me, giving me the stink-eye when I suck like an adult. Perhaps I'll get arrested for tampering with this well-circulated family photo, but it was begging for an update that only got to happen in my imagination.