I found a photo of my adult child when they were five years old, almost the same age as my grandkid is now. It’s a photo of a dreamy-looking kid with fine blond hair in a fraying braid, sitting and looking off camera on the front porch of a house where none of us lives now. 

I sent the photo to my kid, who showed it to the grandchild, saying, “That was me when I was your age.” 

He said, “there’s two of you?” 

Every one in a while, I remember that 5-year-olds do not think like their future selves. I also get the confusion, because my adult kid is 5’10” with short hair and a long face like their father’s, and is also not anyone’s child, but someone’s parent. 

He’s right, in a strange way: Present self, even if it remembers being five years old, is not the same person as the past self.  And some day, he will be a completely different person himself. 

I don’t know how many people I am. I’m someone’s child, someone’s parent, someone’s grandparent, and something else to a long parade of other people.