Talking to Myself

By Zoe Simpson

Photo from Kate Broadnax

I once had a dream that I was in line for a food truck. It was parked in a hilly, grassy park with the sun high up and cushioned by clouds. Even though it was bright, it wasn’t hot. There wasn’t wind blowing my hair in my face, and my clothes weren’t too tight or too itchy. There were only a few people in front of me, yet from where I was, the menu was blurry. I couldn't read any of the words or look at any of the pictures, and as the line moved forward, I began to sweat. 

When I got to the front of the line, I looked closely at the menu, only to discover that the words were in a different language. I looked at the cashier, who smiled and waited, and my mouth faltered, trying to search for  any word that I recognized. My hands began to twitch as the silence beat on and the words in front of me became a muddied mess. I began to take a step back when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked back, seeing an old man in a sweater vest smiling softly at me. I didn’t know him, but he pointed at the menu, and said, 

“Just pick something random. Maybe you’ll like it, maybe you won’t.” 

He patted my shoulder and left, continuing his walk through the park while the birds chirped behind him. 

I pressed my lips together, turning back around. I glanced at the menu with its words I didn’t understand and  pointed to a random dish. The cashier smiled and nodded like I picked a good one. I smiled back as he handed me a sealed styrofoam box, my hands not feeling so sweaty anymore. 

I woke up with a strange feeling, a sense of calm I wasn’t used to. It felt so silly to think that I told myself, disguised as a wise old man and a misty landscape, that I didn't have to worry about things that didn’t matter. 

So, I carry that old man with me everywhere, telling myself, 

“Maybe it will, maybe it won’t.”