I glance out of my driver’s side window and see a boy trudging miserably down the sidewalk his essence radiating awkwardness this long haired kid, maybe twelve years old or just turned thirteen wore hand me down boots that are too big for his feet, ripped jeans, and a bookbag slung across his shoulder in the dying days of July whispering under his breath maybe reciting poetry or telling himself a story
And I honestly think if time is fluid, like the oceans like the monks say then maybe I’m glancing over as a wave breaks and I’m looking at myself I couldn’t tell you how many times I made that journey on foot my heels throbbing, my legs begging to be broken my hitchhiker’s thumb, had given up all hope at that point
I think about giving myself a ride to wherever I may be going but then I remember all the lessons I’ve learned from time-travel movies the one universal rule being not to meddle with the past something about a butterfly’s wings flapping in Beijing and a tsunami in New Orleans or whatever so, instead I honk my horn and the traffic light turns green
I watch the boy, who might have been a younger me in some distant past, look on with curious anger as the cars pass for a moment then return to the story already in progress
he grows tinier and tinier in my rear view mirror until he is yesterday again