Of a translated me

A friend made a comment about translation.

And that comment took me back to a day when we talked for hours at Tanglewood, and a skeptical me worried that you liked only a translated version me, but not the "me" I knew, not the one that gave me meaning.

I asked you that day if you thought personality was translatable. I don't know what you answered, but you probably laughed it off as a pseudo-intellectual snobism of mine.

The question haunts me.

I worry you'll never read me raw as I am.