Spring arrived quietly this year, not with fanfare, but with a hush, like a memory slipping back into place. The kind of morning where the air feels lighter, laced with the scent of new blossoms and something older, harder to name.
I met my eight-year-old self for tea. She was already there, sitting alone with her thoughts, early, as always. Tiny, with that familiar stern expression etched across her face, she didn’t offer a smile, just a look that said she was mildly annoyed I wasn’t as punctual as she was. She didn’t say much at first, she never did. Just like the old days, she sat still, absorbing the world around her with careful eyes.
The tea was warm. The silence, gentle. In her presence, I felt both the ache of what I’ve become and the quiet grace of what I’ve carried forward.
Eventually, she looked up and asked, “How did you learn to smile?” She studied my face, almost in disbelief, and added, “You look beautiful when you smile.”
I told her I only realized that smiles could be beautiful when I turned twenty-three. She let out a small smile of her own, the kind that held secrets, like she knew things I had long forgotten, like time hadn’t passed the same for her.
I was surprised at how much we talked, at how many questions she had stored up. She asked if I ever got the chance to truly be a child, because she remembered how we were held responsible for our siblings actions, how the weight of their mistakes fell on our small shoulders. I told her that we’re all grown now. Everyone is responsible for themselves, and most importantly, I now have a choice.
She glanced at my freckles and said she was surprised they were still there, considering how much I once hated them, how I used to wish for acne just to make them disappear. I smiled and told her things got better. As a teenager, I realized they’re one of my most distinct features. In fact, I even dye my hair ginger now so they stand out more. She gave me that famous side-eye and said nothing.
Then she asked about the fainting spells and panic attacks, the ones that robbed her of childhood, made her world feel unsafe. I told her they’re gone now, and that whenever I get the chance, I play catch-up on lost time. She nodded slowly and said, “I told you things would get better.”
I decided to ask her something for a change. “How are you?”
She sighed and told me her sisters were going on holiday to their aunt’s, but she had to stay home to make sure the chores got done. I looked at her and simply said, “I’m sorry. I don’t have those problems anymore. I take holidays now, spontaneously, whenever I want.”
She tilted her head, amused. “You’re so talkative now.” I laughed. “I found my voice. I can’t keep quiet anymore.”
I invited her to lunch, but she declined. She had to get back to cooking, chores, washing uniforms for her siblings. She told me she still boils socks in hot water to keep them sparkling white, the same routine that led to her burning her feet at six, trying to hide the stove before anyone caught her.
She asked if I still have domestic obligations. I told her I do those things by choice now, never out of obligation. She smiled again, her second one, softer this time, and said she had to go. But she promised we’d meet again, she still had more questions.
Before leaving, she asked, “Do you have the love of your life now?”
I told her I’m alone, just like old times. But I have many loves in my life, just not the romantic kind.
I hugged her tightly, and we said our goodbyes.
We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. The tea was warm, the silence was gentle. Around us, petals fell like fragments of old dreams, soft and slow.
As she walked away, I watched her small figure blend with the shadows of the trees, her mind already moving forward. And I realized that, in some strange way, I had met her to say goodbye, not just to the girl I was, but to the parts of me that still held onto things I had long outgrown. I had kept her safe in the quiet places where memories rest, but now it was time for her to grow too. To see herself as I see her now - strong, beautiful, and free.
And maybe, just maybe, in letting her go, I could finally begin to embrace the spring she had always been, the endless potential of new beginnings, of blooming into something we are both becoming.
