ふたつの時
皿の上に
蒸気たち
Two timelines—
rising in soft steam
from one plate.
If I could host a dinner, and anyone I invited was sure to come—
no delays, no wrong addresses, no polite refusals—
I wouldn’t ask for celebrities, spiritual masters, or even the ones I still dream about
when the train sways too gently through tunnels.
I’d invite two people.
My older self—the one who already knows how this ends.
And my future self—the one who hasn’t told me yet.
No RSVP needed. They would simply arrive,
exactly when the dough is thin enough to read a newspaper through.
We’d meet in a house that only exists on days when you wake up before sunrise and everything feels slightly left of real.
Wooden beams. No clocks.
A stove with chipped enamel and a window that fogs just enough to blur the past and future behind it.
I’d cook Apfelstrudel—the proper kind.
Not frozen, not rushed.
The dough would be handmade, stretched on an old linen cloth,
until it was almost translucent.
You could hold a newspaper beneath it and still read the headlines.
That’s how my grandmother did it, and her mother before her.
I’d fill it with tart apples, lemon zest, cinnamon, sugar, raisins soaked in rum, and toasted breadcrumbs for warmth.
The scent alone would be enough to summon them.
The cutlery would be a patchwork of my life:
a fork from a market in Porto,
a knife from a ryokan in Aomori where they served pickled burdock root on rainy mornings,
chopsticks wrapped in lacquered black from a Kyoto alley I’ve never found twice.
The plates would be handmade Japanese ceramics—irregular, quiet in tone, slightly cracked at the edges.
Wabi-sabi.
The coffee would come from a roastery I visited once in Ljubljana—hidden in a courtyard, with beans roasted so slowly the whole place smelled like earth remembering fire.
I bought a bag, forgot about it, then rediscovered it during a move.
The best coffee always finds you twice.
My older self would arrive first.
He’d be wearing a scarf someone once gave him and still forgets the name of.
There’d be something slow in his walk, but nothing sad.
“You still make it like that,” he’d say, nodding toward the strudel cooling by the window.
“The only way it tastes right,” I’d reply.
He’d sit down without being asked.
I’d pour him coffee. No sugar, just a little cream.
“I worry about you,” I’d say, watching the steam rise from his mug.
“You still sleep too little. Still look at your phone like it’s a person who owes you an apology.”
He wouldn’t deny it.
“Go outside more. Take trains without plans.
Listen to the wind through pines. It knows things.
Don’t waste your mornings.
And buy the good socks. Your feet deserve kindness.”
He’d sip, then smile with half his face.
“Noted,” he’d say.
Then the future self would arrive.
He wouldn’t knock.
He’d just appear in the doorway, holding a lemon wrapped in newspaper.
A gift, maybe. Or a message.
His coat would be well-worn.
His eyes would be quiet.
The kind of quiet that only comes from having lost something important and survived it.
He’d place the lemon on the table without explanation, and sit between us.
We’d eat slowly.
Knife against crust, steam rising from apple.
No rush. No seconds.
I’d speak first.
I’d talk about forks in the road—
how I once chose to study abroad on a whim,
not because it made sense, but because something inside me whispered go.
I’d tell them about the girl in England.
How I crossed countries because of her.
How love made me braver than reason ever could.
I’d talk about the accident.
The one with the bike and the wrong turn,
that shattered my wrist and made me rethink everything.
How I couldn’t write for weeks.
How the world went quiet, and in that quiet,
I started to listen to myself differently.
“You became someone new after that,” the older me would say.
“You became someone real,” the future me would add.
We wouldn’t speak the whole time.
Some silences would stretch like old jazz solos—
awkward at first, then oddly perfect.
At one point, I’d ask my older self:
“What did I forget?”
He’d think. Then answer.
“You forgot how to be bored.
And you forgot how to be amazed by small things—like peeling oranges or hearing your name in someone else’s mouth.”
I’d nod.
I’d ask the future me,
“Does it work out?”
He wouldn’t say yes.
He wouldn’t say no.
He’d just look at me, tilt his head, and say,
“You’ll remember what matters.
And forget what doesn’t.
That’s enough.”
We’d sit there a while longer—three of me,
each holding a warm mug,
each shaped by a different wind.
And just before leaving,
my future self would touch the lemon,
push it toward me,
and say,
“This—keep it close. You’ll understand when it’s time.”
Then he’d walk out.
No goodbye.
Just the creak of old wood and a door that didn’t need locking.
Wabi-sabi lesson:
The best things rarely make sense at first.
They come unannounced—
as strudel dough stretched thin,
as a detour through England,
as a lemon placed on your table by someone you haven’t become yet.
Life doesn’t reward logic.
It rewards attention.
A well-made dessert. A meaningful accident. A fork you carry for no reason—until someone needs it.
Sleep more.
Worry less.
Stretch the dough slowly.
Let your past sit at your table,
and let your future speak when it’s ready.
Because one day,
you’ll be the guest.
And you’ll be grateful someone remembered to keep the coffee warm.
life 
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