My Most Compassionate Self

I meet my most compassionate self in the early morning hours. We meet at Piper’s Tea & Coffee. She looks at me, curious. Her bright blond hair is pulled into two pigtails. She has an animated personality, and her voice is bright. She has green eyes; wears frilly socks with her white keds.

She sits across from me, a tall cup of hot chocolate steaming in front of her. I am drinking an Americano. Her legs kick against the chair, one leg. The other leg. Kick.

Most of all, she is innocent, optimistic, and honest. The world has not yet broken her. We have things we need to talk about, her and I, and I’m not sure who is going first.

“You’re cute.” I smirk, not having seen my younger self in photos for quite some time.

“I know.” She says, a little sassy, blowing hard on her hot chocolate, face scrunched up.

“Lauren…” I begin.

She is humming “Jesus Loves Me.” My eyes begin to water. What the fuck. She looks up to me, eyes big with wonder.

How do I tell her what I know now? How do I tell her that the world is not a safe place, that she will fall and scrape her knees on the harsh asphalt, that she will have night terrors at age twenty.

I open my mouth. Close it.

“Guess what!” She exclaims suddenly.

“What?” I ask, staring out the window distractedly.

“I’m going to be a veterinarian.” She says in a loud whisper.

I am about to tell her that no way, she’ll never get good enough grades for that, and besides, pretty soon all animals will gross her out. Something stops me, though.

She is looking down at the hot chocolate again, blowing hard, before raising the mug to her lips and taking a sip. “Ah.” She says dramatically. Now she has a huge chocolate mustache. I think about telling her, but I know she won’t care.

A million things race through my mind. I blurt out the first thing that comes to me: “You’re unlovable, Lauren.” I expect her to throw a fit, cry, scream, something. But, instead, to my great surprise, she just looks at me, eyes narrowed. “No.” She says simply, with a shake of her head.

Just then a little boy walks by, probably the same age. She smiles widely, waves. He giggles and waves back, and I clear my throat loudly. She looks at me, annoyed.

“You need to watch out for youself.” I say in a grave voice.

“That’s okay, Paw locked the doors on Christmas Eve so santa couldn’t come in.”

It’s true, that when I was four or five I had a fear of santa claus, and I watched my grandfather lock all the doors in our house, per my demand.

“No, you don’t under — ”

She holds up a hand, silencing me. I don’t know why, but I oblige.

“What is your favorite color?” She asks with a seriousness that would make you think she is a country offering a peace treaty.

“Um. I don’t know? Black?”

She narrows her eyes into slits. “MY favorite color is yellow.”

“Well. Alright then. So, you need to know, this world is not safe. People can really hurt you, okay?”

She looks at me.

“Nuh-uh. You know why? Because Paw always protects the farm. It’s just… What he does.” She says this as a final statement, taking another sip.

I need to tell her Paw dies, right? This is her second mention of him. She needs to know.

“Paw dies soon, Lauren.” I look at her apologetically, sorry that I have to break the news to her so young.

“You mean…” She begins. “He goes up to Heaven soon? With God and Jesus and Granny McNeese and Prissy?” Prissy was my grandparents’ schnauzer. She looks almost joyful, like this is amazing news. She speaks in an incredulous whisper. I don’t know what to say. It’s not that I don’t believe anymore, it’s just that, when someone dies, that’s no longer my first reaction.

“Well… Yeah. I guess.” I sigh. This is not going the way I thought it would.

“Okay, um, your mother abandons you.” She laughs. Slaps a hand on the table.

“That is so silly goofy! My mommy would never do that!” She is still laughing. “My mommy would never do that! We’re on the same team!” She emphasizes the word “team” as if it is an unbreakable bond. Like a team can never be separated.

I’m at a loss for words and growing increasingly angry.

“You’re fat! Ugly! Your brain is fucked up! People die! People leave! There is no such thing as magic! You’re not going to be a doctor, because you will never amount to anything! You will live your life scared! The world is not a safe place!

She begins crying big, heartbreaking sobs, very loudly. Good. She got the point.

“I am so sorry!” She cries out. “You. Don’t!” She tries to catch her breath. She is not crying for who she is, but for who she will become.

“You don’t! Know! What you’re saying! You’re lying to me!” She is angry. I did not know this tiny human was capable of anger.

“You’re beautiful! I love you!” She practically screams inside the coffee shop. I thought this was strange. She did not know who I was.

“Lauren.” I begin, but I’m not sure if I can say anything to make this any better.

“Shhhhhh!” She says loudly, and, once again, I obey her.

“You’re loved. And you’re okay.”

Her voice echoes in my mind over. And over. And over again.

“You’re okay.”