The morning is cold, sweatshirt weather. It has been, as my mother would say, spitting rain. I’ve lost track of the number of ugly days in a row. The sun is a fading memory. I am becoming the little girl in Bradbury’s All Summer In a Day.

If my 77 almost 78 year old self surprised my ten year old self, I wondered what questions I’d ask the so much older me. I decided that was a neat idea so I gave it some thought and came up with a few questions.

Has my life been happy? Has it been fun? Have my dreams come true? I think those are the most important questions of all. My answers would delight the young me. Have I ever traveled? Oh, the stories I would tell about the places I’ve been, the most amazing things I’ve seen and the people I’ve met. I’d let it slip that I actually lived in Africa and rode a camel in the Sahara. The young me would be in awe and listen with the widest grin on my face. What did I grow up to do? I’d talk about the job I was lucky enough to choose, the job I loved. It was seldom work. What did I like to do? They’d be no surprise that I love to read and watch old black and white science fiction movies probably still current back then. I love to cook, and that is a surprise. I do needlework, and that’s even a bigger surprise. The young me never gave thought I’d love what are sort of, to me, old womanly activities, tasks. I’d talk about playing the ukulele. Back then I didn’t believe I had a musical bone in my body. I sang so badly off tune it even hurt my ears.

After the questions were asked and answered, I’d use a sort of Neuralyzer to wipe away the memories of my visit. I wouldn’t want to influence the young me. I’d want my life to follow its natural course.

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