(4) In my rear-view mirror
From time to time I think of her, even though I don’t see her anymore, not much. Sometimes she comes back when I’m telling a story at a party or when I am passing a certain bus stop or when I lock eyes with someone, purely by accident. And I talk about her, because, a few long years ago, one of my teachers said that we tend to think of our past and future selves as of strangers. Now, I don’t know how scientifically correct this statement is, perhaps not at all, but it stuck with me. Because how come. And at the same time, it made so much sense.
***
She was a small kid once, with thick glasses and thin hair that was almost white. She wasn’t particularly smart or bright, but could read fast and loud. A skill that gave her confidence. And she was creative, freely and boundlessly, only as a kid can be. A core memory: she got a paper medal from one of her teachers, for the most creative girl. Something to remember. Something to keep, somewhere in there.
She didn’t have any particular dreams regarding her future, except for one: to be busy and important. Needed somewhere else. A simple result of watching her parents, who were always moving fast, from the wooden clad kitchen in their tiny apartment to big things of great importance. She didn’t know what they did, exactly, she just knew it meant something. A real something, unlike anything in a small girl’s universe. She often was the last one to be picked up from kindergarden in the evening, but it was fine. It made her proud, because she knew her mom was doing much bigger things than her tiny kid existence could comprehend. To be always on the go, to be late, tired and busy; that’s what she wanted to be.
But then she grew older, perhaps into a completely different she. But still, ridiculously bad at maths. She had bottle blonde hair now, all of the sudden, she was occupied, rum-and-coke sipping, winking and blinking, confused but then it’s whatever, loud and slightly obnoxious. Wearing plastic rings and colored eyeliner. You know how it feels when you’re this young. When tomorrow is stunning, gleaming, promised, but also it doesn’t exist. Why would it matter? It’s all her to lose, so might as well.
She drove a cherry red Ford that probably is a pile of metal today, but at one point was so, so special. So dear. A token of independence. Huge plush cat, ginger with a pink bow, as a keychain. A bunch of CDs from mom. Other things that mattered to her these days: not much actually.
It was the time of not knowing. Not knowing what’s next, not knowing better, not knowing that it’s not true that you know everything. Exactly how it was supposed to be. What she felt was what the entire world was. Smashing coke cans, dropping house keys to the ground, losing valuable things, smiling wide, wider for the picture, inseparable best friends, I love you so much, laying in the field at night. Saying things like, this is going to last forever. Did it?
***
Whatever happened then, it all eventually became not much more than a diary entry she might have re-read before deciding whether to keep or throw it away. Because she was moving abroad. She rented a flat in another country. She really wanted to be split in two. Have a life there and then elsewhere. In the name of childhood dream of being on the go, she now had a hardshell, cabin-size suitcase, that became something like an extension of herself. Another core memory: packing said bag, weekly or bi-weekly. In there - her favorite silk slip dress, folded in quarters, slinky and thin so it always could fit there, rows of tiny plastic containers with contact lenses in the zipper pocket in between the sections, so that she could always be sure she packed them. Otherwise she’d be almost blind, because her eyesight kept getting worse and worse each year. She’d often buy her boyfriend a bottle of wine, always with a pretty label, so that usually found its place in the suitcase too. When she dragged it across the cobblestones, she’d worry the bottle would break. Life truly felt like two separate halves, connected by a thin string of a railway line. One time, her strange next door neighbor tried to describe her in one word - unterwegs, he said. She liked being perceived like that. In the name of childhood dream of being on the go.
She never carried cash, which was a certain choice, especially living in an almost cash-only city. How to get by like that? Relying on kindness of friends. Sometimes strangers. Less often, find this one place that takes card. Shameless. I’ll send it back tomorrow morning. I’ll get you the next time. Why was she like that? I can’t tell. Perhaps it was a way to assert that she’s here only briefly, temporarily, just for now - I have a train at 5 in the morning, so I won’t be sleeping tonight - so why would she need cash in local currency? Even though she had a rented apartment there, groceries to buy, things to attend, something one could call a whole life. A TV bill, name on the doorbell, a neighbor that came up with a word to call her.
During this time, she also wrote a lot of fictional stories. Another core memory - delving into the creative process. Just as when she was a kid. Almost, actually not at all, because, suddenly, there was fear of making something not good or irrelevant or self indulgent or pointless or repetitive, which forced to recalculate the way of thinking about creating. From considering giving up completely and throwing everything out and never looking at it again, to trying once more, just one last time, to finally taming the fear and creating something bad. Turns out, it’s not that scary, maybe even necessary, to put out something that isn’t strong, as her film school teachers would say. Something that maybe is unfortunate, but carries the marks of actual trying, shows the errors, imperfections, plot holes. Beautiful in this strange way.
And after all, it is never that deep. Really. Letting go and trusting yourself - a process that, turns out, takes an entire lifetime or longer than that.
***
I look at her, as she is further and further from me everyday. But that allows me to see better - see the fuller picture. It steers towards grace and understanding. Though sometimes I can’t help but blame her for my regrets and shame and all of the weight I unnecessarily carry but can’t ever seem to leave behind. Though I wish she were just slightly different and made things just a bit easier for me.
How much can I really trust what I remember about her? How can memory be a sufficient evidence of whatever happened then? How can I see her without the filter of me, years ahead? Me that owns a briefcase, me that values things like being professional and being sensible, and me that is in a relationship, the kind that feels real, the kind that when my friends ask me how it is, I can say it’s all good. How can I look at her, without being overly judgmental or perhaps patronizing, or, simpler, how can I see her as myself, changed, surely, but ultimately the same person?
***
One evening, with my mom, in the car. No cherry reds anymore, we were in a graphite Toyota, just the color of the tip of a pencil, deep and slightly shiny. We rolled through the dusty road among fields, on the way to the house I grew up in. I don’t remember how the subject came up, but we were discussing our younger selves, inevitably ending up with the question: what would you tell yourself from the past?
My mom says that she wouldn’t tell her anything, besides, just live your life.
Because she did the best with what she could back then. And how do I know more about her life than she did?
And precisely for that, I am grateful to her. That she lived her life, however she wanted at the time. Life of strange decisions, life that I roll my eyes at, life that was unserious, even though everything felt like the most serious thing in the world. Figuring out, learning, navigating. Life that could start again any day. Life where she didn’t think of me at all, because why would she think of someone that she saw as a total stranger?