I stand anxiously by the fence, palms sweating. Even though I’ve never seen it before, never even dreamed it, my heart knows this is the Place of Meeting.

I look up to see myself, striding briskly over the beat-up, neglected soccer field. At first it’s almost like looking in a mirror, until I get closer and see that my face has aged in a dramatic way. There are deep bruise-like shadows beneath my eyes.

I notice that I’m not wearing shoes.

Something’s sent me off kilter.

But I have to ask. Because I have to know. And I know that I will never have another chance.

“Tell me that it’s going to be okay,” I almost whisper as I stare into my own aged eyes. The effect is almost like shining a mirror into a mirror; the reflection seems to stretch for an eternity.

Those tired eyes make no move to respond.

“Tell me it’s going to be okay!!” I say, voice rising, tears spilling over.

I shake my head solemnly.

“NO!” I shout, and make a move to shake myself.

But by then I’m already gone.