She cradled a broken doll,

Its lips turned up in a grim smile,

Its closed lids glistened with the girl’s tears

There’s music, laughter—

                “Stop,” I shout and everything fades.

The water stills once more with her face

 

“She’s not me,” I tell her—

                That girl looking at me from the watery surface

Her mouth moves in mockery of mine

And my voice, her voice, our voice echoes.

“I’m not her,” I shout.

“But I’m you,” she taunts, “and she’s me”.

 

Years have passed.

We meet once again where the sky and water kiss.

“Hello,” we whisper, too scared to anger the other—

                To create ripples in our fragile connection

“You’ve changed,” she tells me.

I don’t respond.

She’s right. I’m no longer that child.

 

She held a little girl’s hands,

Spinning in dizzying circles,

Singing, giggling—

                “Wait, who was that,” I question.

“Who are you,” she responds, her voice dying

 

“Who am I,” I ask her.

“Who am I,” she whispers back,

Our question, a never ending echo in the fabric of existence

 

Her face ripples before me

Changing—

                Laughing, crying, screaming

I stare at her in wonder and horror.

“You are me,” I tell her.

“You. Me. Us,” she manages before our link breaks

 

“Hello Ufaira,” I greet her

“Hello Ufaira,” she mimics.

As I step into the water, she fades

But we both know she’ll return

 

I visit her often, enjoying the company she provides

She takes the chance to absorb me as I am now,

I take the time to remember who I was—

                “You’ve changed,” she tells me.

I always do.

 

“Who am I,” she asks me—

                Her voice bringing back memories

“Who I was,” I whisper back,

“Who I am”

Our fingers touch, and we change again.