I was a tall, clumsy girl who fell over her legs in soccer and dislocated her elbow, who broke almost every finger in volleyball, who spoke in a stammer and a lisp, the latter of which is still pronounced, the former hidden unless I am nervous or speaking in Bengali. That girl is not gone.

She is hidden inside me and I wish she was my friend but most of the time I think she is not. She watches me carefully. She sizes me up when I get ready in the mornings, she watches me when I run slowly down a lane, she reads my writings, she peeps from over my shoulders and she says to me, Huh, so this is who you are? Not incredulous or loud or anything, just like a small slight shake of the head and a half muttered tsk tsk tsk.

Look what you do, that girl tells me. You sit on the ground in a patch of light, sunbathing by your bunnies and your dog, several half opened books turned on their faces, lines jotted in a journal, an unfinished PhD, a yet to be published book in your folders, around you and in storage more belongings than you need. Look at how you stare out at the emptiness in front of you, at ocean and sky and grass covered land. In the pond the golden fish are busier than you. Is this the life you built for yourself or was it built for you?

I don’t have answers for her but when I sit still and let the sun enter my body, a light so crisp it reminds me of floating on my back in the sea, she that girl I was stills her voice and becomes–me and we are both nothing.