I can look into my past and it’s seemingly still so close that I can touch it with my weary hands, rough and calloused, palms furrowed. I can enjoy the well-meaning invitation of an expired répondez s’il vous plaît. Taste it’s menu, it’s buffet of self-served, self-serving and bittersweet moments, each with an itinerary that ends it’s travels halfway down my throat, where it will remain, even, and especially, after it’s finally digested. I can see my past, but it does not see me. I am not the same as my past remembers. I do not look or act the same as I did then. If only my past knew just what an impact it had on the stranger standing before it today.