At 80 years old, I wake up for one day inside of my 43-year-old body. I open my eyes and find myself in my bedroom of the old house we raised our children in. Rochelle is asleep beside me. Her hair is blond. I forgot how blond it was.
I sit up, disoriented but with ease. Wait, I just sat up. I didn’t pull myself up. My back doesn’t hurt, and I feel like I can just stand. Feet on the floor and lift off. Oh, this is different. My legs are strong. I can walk. I don’t have to shuffle.
I wonder what I look like?
The man in the mirror looks different. My hair is brown. My face is young and bright. Wait, what day is it?
Tuesday, October 6th, 2026.
“2026 2026 2026”
What?!?!? My girls still live with me! Are they here? I open the door and step into the hallway. Both of their doors are closed. They are here. It’s Tuesday. Today is a school day.
Opening Zoe’s door, I see her lying there. She’s bundled up on her side like she always was. She’s so little. So young. Sinking down beside her, I move her hair away from her face…
“Good morning, sweet pea.”
“Good morning, Dad.”
I’m not 80. I’m 43. That Tuesday was two days ago.
I did wake Zoe up that morning. I said it was time for school and walked out. I didn’t sit with her. I didn’t talk to her. I rushed out of the room and on to the next thing.
80-year-old me would have stayed. He would have sat there with her. He would have talked to her.
He isn’t asking for more time. He’s asking for the same five minutes I already had. I didn’t save anything by leaving early. I just missed it.
To me, it was a school day. To him, it’s a miracle. Same morning. Same room. Same girl.
Try this.
Picture yourself at 80. You wake up for one day inside the body you have today.
Write it down in the present tense. Only the first few minutes.
Where are you? Who is still in the house? What can you reach now that you won’t be able to reach later?
Then tomorrow morning, live the part you wrote.
When you get to that room, don’t rush out of it.
live freed,
Jordan
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