Just In Case Poem by Heidi K. Haskell

Take a photo of yourself every birthday
And keep them all somewhere.
Maybe write a note to remember
How each year felt, coming and going.
Take, for example

The year you were eight
When your superiority complex was still fighting your low self-esteem
And you felt compelled to bite people
When they made you angry.
And oh, they made you angry!

Or the year you were twelve,
Your heart tearing itself to bits every two weeks,
And your first (and to-date, only) precognitive episode.
Although now you’ve learned that believing in precognition
Is a symptom of schizotypal personality disorder.

Or eighteen, the world at your feet, and crippled with indecision;
Or twenty-one, out of college and floundering;
Or twenty-seven, tired and hopelessly lonely,
Writing poetry (that maybe no one reads) on your lunch break.
Yes, take a photo every year.

And maybe keep one in your wallet
For those times when you really need to explain to someone
Why you are the way you are,
Why you act the way you do.
Just pull out the picture and say,

“This is me at fourteen:
Fat, dorky, bad hair, no fashion sense, and only four friends.
Look at her! She senses there’s a great huge world out there,
And she has no idea how to get to it,
Or what to do when she gets there.

“She’s insecure, and she feels inadequate,
But somehow she’s sure she’s smarter than the fools around her.
She had no idea what to do with herself
Or her talents or her dreams or her life.
She’s a scared kid in a world that’s big and mean.”

Make them see (make very sure)
This glorious mess of hormones and trepidation.
Then deliver the crux of your explanation:
“This is me. I’m still her.”