Updated December 29, 2009
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I met her walking through the corridors of time gone by. She was the picture come to life. White, blonde hair cut in a Dutch boy, gamine face, impish grin. She didn't recognize me of course, and only stopped when I called her by name.

"How do you know my name?" she asked with a puzzled expression.

"Because", I answered, liking the brightness in her eyes, " it's the same as mine with an "h" hanging around at the end to confuse people. We have the same last name too. You see, I am the big you and you are the little me."

"Wow!" You mean I'm going to look like you when I get big?"

"Yes", I replied. "What do you think? Will it be so bad looking like me?"

"No..." she answered, somewhat dubiously. "But you are a little fat. I'm not fat at all!"

"That's right, and you won't be until you're past eleven. By that time you will have gone through the ugly duckling stage and will just be starting the pretty awful teen years. But don't worry, you get prettier again when you're about eighteen."

The little version of me ignored that because she couldn't imagine being anything besides six years old. Instead she asked, "Do you remember what it was like being me, I mean the little you?"

"No, I remember little things here and there but not very much, so why don't you tell me?"

"Okay, but first you have to promise to tell me what it's going to be like when I'm the big me."

"It's a deal." I replied.

"Let's see," she began, with a look of concentration. "I don't know where to start. Do you remember living in Montrose? That's where we're living now. There's Mom and Dad and my brother, Dave. Oh, he's your brother too. Do you still have as much fun with him as I do?"

"No, I'm afraid not - we've grown apart over the years, but I have very good memories of him. Anyway, what else?"

"Well, I, I mean we, I mean you and Dave have three big sisters but they're lots older so we hardly ever see them. I go to school. I'm in the first grade and we have a big tree in the back yard that Dave and I like to climb and we have a friend down the street named Dan. We smoked cigars once at his house and I don't like my teacher 'cause she makes me hold up two fingers to go to the bathroom and sometime she doesn't see me and then I wet my pants. David is my best friend. I don't like other girls much. I like playing cops and robbers instead of with icky dolls. And, oh yeah, we go to church a lot. Now it's your turn."

I thought to myself, how do you condense twenty-five years of living into the simple terms a six-year-old child would understand. How do you tell this miniature version of yourself that through the years she will laugh a lot and hurt a lot without shedding very many tears because somehow or other her life would decree that she holds herself apart from the world, always being two people, the one showing, the one hidden. I ended these thoughts at an impatient tug on my dress.

"Come on," she complained, "what's taking you so long?"

"Well, like you, little girl, I don't quite know where to start. I have two sons, one is just a bit bigger than you and looks like you too. The other is thirteen, almost like you're big sisters. He has dark hair and is very good looking. I live in Vancouver, British Columbia - that's in Canada. You must have heard of Canada because that's where you were born."

"Sure! That's where we're from! Are you married?! Do you live in a nice house? Are you rich? Do your kids have lots of toys? Gee.. it's hard to think about having kids. And why boys? Why didn't you have a girl like me. Don't you like girls? Why.."

"Whoa! One question at a time. And yes, I love little girls. As a matter of fact, I've had a name picked out for a girl since I was thirteen. Do you like the name, Danielle Cherine?"

"It's awful long. I wouldn't know to spell it."

"Well, I would have called her Dani Cher for short. Anyway, to answer some of your questions, I've had two husbands (don't look so shocked - things change through the years); I live in an apartment with Ryan and Chris, my two boys; I am far from rich and the boys don't have lots of toys. Just ask them."

She was quiet for a long moment. I could see the expressions of disappointment and the struggle to understand such adult concepts cross her face. Finally, looking uncomfortable, she asked, "Will I like being you?"

Now it was my turn to pause before answering, not wanting to shatter whatever dreams she may have; not wishing to paint a false picture of what was to come. But finally, with a smile I answered, "Sometimes you will be sad and feel very lonely, but mostly you will like who you are."

Then, with a child's impatience, she was poised for flight to the next interesting thing in her young life. In parting, she ran up and gave me hug, saying, "Remember me."

It has not always been easy to remember the innocence and wide-eyed wonder contained in the gamine face of that little girl, but I have remembered, and I'm a better person for the memory.