Letter to myself, aged 8, from Heart Island, Penobscot Bay, Maine

NaPoWriMo April 3: “In your poem for today, use a simple phrase repeatedly, and then make statements that invert or contradict that phrase.”

The format for my poem today is inspired by Joanna Ingham’s "To My Mother, Aged 10," and the wise words of my dear dad, Lawrence Hornor, who often answered my requests for advice with, “Just be yourself.” And no, sadly, I’m not really in Maine. Not physically, this morning…

Letter to myself, aged 8, from Heart Island, Penobscot Bay, Maine, by Elizabeth Boquet

You will not be a lighthouse keeper
who feeds herds of seals
off the rocks on Penobscot Bay.
Some siblings will tease you.
Don't cry; your sheets, though glued,
won't really catch on fire.
No matter what they do,
you will still be you.

There will be piano, accordion,
and drum lessons;
you will never master any of them,
but music will always make you dance—
even on the occasional coffee table—
as constant proof
that you’re still you.

As for school, your only F, ever,
will be in French, in college.
You will get kicked out of college.
You will go to France,
get a master's in French,
and fall madly in love with France
and, believe it or not, school—turn into
a teacher, if you stay you.

In fact, you will fall madly in love,
regularly. Your heart will break
and mend, regularly. You will drop
your job, family, and country
to marry a watchmaker and follow him
to all that tea in China.
This will be the best decision
you will ever make, if you stay true
to yourself and remain you.

You will have the same best friends
for over fifty years.
There will be work as a camp counselor,
teacher, volunteer, translator,
Forex trader, lifeguard, chambermaid,
and in the subway in Paris.
There will be a plane on fire.
You will be fine.
There will be cancer and surgeries,
a burst artery, and hemorrhages.
There will be a crash, followed by
a double funeral.
You will be fine. Grandma is right;
you come from good stock.
All this, you will get through,
so long as you stay true to you.

There will be a daughter.
There will be an angel baby.
Then there will be a son,
and you will wrap your soul
around them, carry them
with you wherever you go
every millisecond of every second
with a love you never knew
was possible inside the true you.

Come one summer evening,
in more years than you can count
on your fingers and toes,
just before your hard-won dinner,
after a perfect Maine day
fishing off of Heart Island,
overlooking Penobscot Bay,
you will hear the seals’ hungry bark,
and you will scamper—
as best as you can, in the dark—
down the rocks to see lighthouse beam
on seals' heads bobbing in the waves.
And you, Dear One, will feed them
your entire catch of the day,
knowing all your needs are met.
Feeling satisfied with your life,
in deep you’ll breathe, then breathe out,
                 “Phewwwww!”
and thank this life you’ve lived as you.

Dad holding my son.