It's 10 PM, my son is fast asleep. Rain is pouring hard outside, the kind of weather where you just want to curl up under your blanket. I trace my baby's face slowly, watching his eyes close, listening to his calm breaths and feeling his fingers loosen, no longer holding mine. This moment slow me down and I'm taken back to the old days when I met the 15-year-old me.
Here I am, sitting at my grandfather's kitchen with a cup of hot honey tea, facing a middle school girl, with a cellphone in her hand. She's texting (or tweeting?) I don't know to whom, but something must be really funny, since she lets out a little laugh.
"Nice to see you again, thank you for inviting me," I say.
"Doesn't matter. It's Saturday night, I usually sleep at 3 AM," She replies absentmindedly. I purse my lips, kind of having secondhand embarrassment. How did I forget? She was me, 15 years ago!
