It is easy to see the world around us changing. Whether it be a new friend or a new experience, I try to embrace it with open arms. Even an old book can take on new meaning, with older eyes reinterpreting the dusty pages.
But I have never been comfortable knowing that I am changing. My body is changing. My appearance is changing. I am not the same person I was a year ago… or three years ago… or ten. I see old pictures of myself, and a ghost stares back at me. Who is that girl, wearing my clothes and holding my things? Shining my smile back at me, foreign and horrific?
I feel no relation to that stranger. But I see the events swirling around that frozen moment. The clarinet sitting in the corner. The black concert attire draped over a chair. That shirt that went to Goodwill (and good riddance). The memories come flooding back. Both nostalgic and fearful, I realize that person in the picture… that was me.
How can this be?
In a few years I will look back again and wonder: who is this person? Could this ghost, who now inhabits this moment, possibly be me?