In my book-in-progress, the child-me who once believed that love and immortality are inseparable visits the questioning adult I have become. In some other memoirs I’ve read, the now-adult yearns to dive back in time and comfort the prior child. But I want the opposite. I need her to tell me that this questioning in me will not snuff out her hope. There’s still her, there’s still me. There’s still someone to come.
Check out the series of clues my mother handwrote for Easter morning, which lured me to my Easter basket. (Yes, I save everything.)