The other night, a copy of myself appeared beside the bed. I thought I had heard someone coming into the room and had expected our daughter to climb into the bed with us. But when she didn’t, I opened my eyes and saw myself standing there. Her eyes were wide and she wore a printed dress that I didn’t own, but would have bought. At first I really didn’t recognize her. She had her hair pulled up with more twists and waves than I usually put effort. She also seemed a bit shorter and more solid. Though, at the same time, she was familiar enough that I didn’t scream or really startle. She just looked at me, without saying a word, as if I knew exactly why she was there.
I pulled up the blanket and rolled over, closer to my husband. He grunted slightly, but didn’t wake, didn’t even seem to notice someone else was in the room. The more I listened, the louder the room rang with a strange, unresolved quiet. I knew she was still there. I wanted to turn back and get a better look, to talk to her straight. And then I got this absurd idea that maybe I should just let her do whatever she came to do. That maybe she could be the part of me who will help me figure out all these things in my head I cannot name. I wouldn’t have to explain a thing. Or maybe, somehow, we could work in shifts.