Not the polished, wise elder sitting cross-legged on a mountaintop dispensing elegant aphorisms. No. My future self was more rumpled than that. White-haired. Comfortable shoes. Slightly impatient. Warm, but with very little tolerance for my nonsense. He was somewhere in his nineties and carried himself with the unmistakable energy of someone who had stopped auditioning ...
A Memorial Day Story: Speaking to My Elder Self

