In a seat behind me on a northbound train, there was a girl chattering away. She was younger, her voice was brassy, her inflection peeling at the edges of her sentences. She was talking about anything to fill the time. Every second accounted for, dodging silences. She was on her way home from a Saturday night, on a Sunday morning.
Was I ever like that? I was. We all were at some point. We can barely remember sometimes.
I laughed at her because she was so loud, and I smirked because I was older and wiser and not at all silly any more.
One day I’ll see me as I am now, as a younger woman. But I’ll be older and wiser and not at all silly any more, and I’ll smirk. And so on, and so on.
Meryl Cates is a freelance writer in New York City, and has been published in several publications.