I’m a believer in magic.

Magic in life, in God, in body and soul. Magic in seasonal gusts and stagnant swells, in poetry and art and the very body of human beings. Yes, I’m a believer in magic.

Splicing the timeline might help.

You were a little kid once, right? You talk to yourself, but it’s cute because being crazy isn’t quite “being crazy” until you’re at least 25. You color crayons into their stumpy deaths and sip-slug paint while your parents finger red wine and sigh. Teenagers have it hard. They hole up sloppy love letters in notebooks and smother confidence in comparison. They follow that yellow brick road to the worrisome side of the street where paint is chipped and the government slashed funding, probably years ago at this point. But they always right themselves, remembering to double knot their Converse sneakers and get a move on. Then you get “old,” a.k.a. you turn 21. You freak out about what’s to be and the lost time and the dang comparisons again. You need to lighten up—seriously. You’ve got the rest of your life to worry so much that warts pop up all around your fingers, and even (simulate a shudder) your toes.

And then there are those days. Those glorious days! The days when you remember once upon a time moments you long ago pushed on the back burner. And it’s a once upon a time moment all over again. Like magic.

You look at a photograph and remember yourself and what you were and who you thought you’d be. You sink into a smile in your head, thinking of nothing other than that moment in time, past now, but recovered (thank God!) as you dust off the ash.

I believe in magic because I believe in life’s trigger heap tendency to surmount what’s actually “real.”

The ability to move backwards and forwards, to appreciate.

That happened to me today. I remembered myself. I hope it happened to you too.