By: Sarah Watkins
half stumbling down the wet sidewalk in a hypnagogic haze,
i hear only the hiss of winter’s sharp needles in my ears,
the slap of the soles of my second-hand shoes,
and the scratch of a dried magnolia leaf snaking along the cracked concrete.
i focus on my feet, the only steadiness
in the smeared sea of brown and grey. i step on the magnolia leaf,
pulling my black jacket tighter around myself;
it fits me too-large in the chest.
when i reach the dull white crosswalk and lift my tired eyes,
i am passing myself.
for hours trapped in a millisecond, i am a cricket in a mudslide,
kicking my hard-shelled legs to get free as i study her face
and find that she looks more like me than i ever will—
in every way i am and more:
teeth white like fresh magnolia, brown eyes trained straight ahead
with a soft determination that would be taking things better than i would…
straight posture, shoulders back,
in no particular rush to be anywhere but the place she stood.
i had once thought if i came face to face with myself,
i would reach out and grab myself and say it all—
all the things i never really believed about myself that i should,
the things momma said that i forgot somewhere along the way…
i would cry, i found her! and take her by the arm,
say, i knew you would be here!—and i would be excited,
but never unkind—never voiceless or cold
like i was to her in the past…
but here i am, and here i am,
frozen, little bug in a strange exoskeleton
smothered in her presence, mute,
quivering…
she passes, tall, odd, and as she moves from my front to my side
a realization takes hold of me with trembling fingers:
she looked nothing like me at all…
i am myself, standing alone and strange on the sidewalk.
i would not know myself if i came right up and slapped me.
An Arkansas native with a passion for the arts, Sarah Watkins is an aspiring English educator who graduates from Williams Baptist University in Spring 2025.