It was Thanksgiving, and I looked in my inbox to find a message from the future.
It was from you, three hours into the future, from a family gathering at a Chinese restaurant. I wrote you back too many times that day, perhaps making you huddle over your phone for too long, maybe even earning you an unspoken glare from older family members, as they rolled their eyes at kids these days spending too much time fiddling around with their cell phones. But you wrote me back each time, with warnings about the perils of eating mashed potatoes together with kimchi, about how it would surely send me to multiple trips to the bathroom (you had seen the future, and it was me devastated by the mashed potatoes and kimchi combination, huddled over the toilet). I smiled, because I had eaten those things together before, and never once had it upset my stomach. But this time around, I knew there was no way I was going near those dishes.
I could have felt more alone than I had ever been, spending my 30th Thanksgiving alone, in an unfamiliar state, up in the dog-eared corner of this great continent. But you kept me company. I closed my eyes that night wondering what great things lay in the land that was a mere three hours into the future.