I recently came across a journal I kept my freshman year of college for my second semester English class. Okay, I may not have just come across it; I discovered it digging through a giant bin of mementoes from my earlier days in search of a copy of a poem I wrote in high school.
Later that evening, I flipped open the journal. Two hours later, I closed the notebook.
How many people get to re-meet their younger self? There, in those pages, Young OrangeDoorhinge, in mini-tirades and wry re-countings of detailed scenes from real life, shared her arch observations. With familiarity, I re-thought thoughts, laughed at strongly voiced opinions and stood next to her as she looked down into the valley of youth, or was it an abyss?
When you gaze long into the abyss the abyss also gazes into you.
As we turned away, Young Orange looked at me. I, Old Orange, looked back. I gave her my Indiana Jones half smile, looked her full in the eyes, and then, just as she was expecting I would, I turned my head, never breaking eye contact, until the gold of my iris’s wedged into the corner of my eye and I let the side eye gaze poke her. She smiled then, too.
“You made some mistakes, there, you know,” I said.
“Ha! You made mistakes. What was up with…’ but I cut her off mid-sentence.
“Maybe we should talk over a beer,” I offered.
With her can of Miller Lite in hand, she looked at me appraisingly. She’s thinking I look old, I bet.
“You still write just like me,” said Young. “Bombastically turgid descriptions, metaphors overflowing like dirty dishes in a sink, an affinity for multiple examples in a sentence,” Young said. “Oh, and you think you’re so funny.”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
We sipped our beers; thinking.
“I wanted to matter. I wanted to be strong. Strong enough to be safe.”
“I know you did,” I said.
“Were you safe, Old?” Young asked me.
“Nah. Not safe,” I said, “But strong enough.”
“That’s good,” said Young.
I thought about one of her journal entries. “You should have told that guy to fuck off sooner,” I said.
“Really? Which one?”
I thought for a second. “All of them, I think.”
She laughed and nodded her head. Then she got quiet and looked up at me, “Anything you would have done differently?”
“Everything. Nothing.”
There was not much else to say. Actually, there was a lifetime to talk through, but isn’t that what journals are for anyway?
I smiled. I loved her writing. I loved hanging out with her words. When she returned the smile, I saw that it had a beauty, a light that I didn’t know it had back then.
I looked up into the sweet blue sky, the whipped cream clouds floating by and remembered one of her poems
I take the moment and hold it close
— Young Orange Doorhinge
Let my heart laugh
Eyes singing
This is how it is to live
a memory
Orange Door Hinge 
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