If I could send a message back through the years, the interconnected webwork of memories and dreams, what would I tell the girl I once was? If I could reach back to that sixteen year old hunched over a keyboard in the dark, spilling out poems to an impossible ideal, what would I tell her? Would I warn her about the person she’ll lose, and mourn forever? Would I nudge her toward a different college major? No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I’d risk changing the future, the present, the path between the two. Too many butterflies flapping too many wings. But if I could pass a message back to her, I think I’d show her just a brief glimpse of this moment: of laying in bed while a beauty smiles over the rim of her guitar and a cat naps in the velvet lined case; of singing along, tentatively, because she wants you to and you want to make her smile. I think I’d show that sixteen year old her poems aren’t in honor of some impossible ideal but a living, breathing beauty who’s somewhere writing poems for her, too.