A Letter to My Future Self

Dear me, five years from now,

I was tempted to fill this letter with predictions, but you would only get the pleasure of correcting me. Instead, I want to preserve an unremarkable Tuesday—the sort of day memory usually edits out.

I am writing at the kitchen table because the desk has disappeared beneath unpaid bills, two library books, and a basil plant that is losing its argument with September. The washing machine is making that alarming noise again. I should call someone about it. I probably will not until it stops working entirely.

Work is uncertain. The team may be reorganized next month, and everyone is pretending not to speculate while doing little else. I alternate between imagining a better role and worrying that I have mistaken restlessness for ambition. Perhaps you know which it was. Be kind when you judge me; I am making decisions with information that will look comically incomplete from where you stand.

There are good things, too. Dad’s recovery is going well. Lina lives close enough to appear with groceries and no warning. I have learned to make bread that rises more often than it fails. These facts do not sound momentous, but tonight they feel like the structure holding everything else up.

I do not need you to have become impressive. I hope you still notice ordinary Tuesdays. I hope you call people before the washing machine breaks.

Yours,
Me, with less hindsight