I like the
future more than the past. I plan next
season and next year. It doesn’t matter
if my plans change but the fantasy thrills me.
Sometimes I wonder if it is because of my psychic work. In both murder cases and when helping people
with their problems, I time travel to the past and soar to the future. While the past seems fraught with angst, the
future equals promise and potential.
Now it’s
summer, a season that reminds me of my mother.
She worked swing shift as a nurse so summer meant the two of us washed
sheets and made beds. I ironed my dad’s
handkerchiefs and complained of boredom.
“I wish
there were something to do,” I whined.
“Don’t
wish your life away,” she barked.
She was
right and wrong. Right because I miss
those slow hot days and her long sighs.
Wrong because the future does fill me with hope. The present is fine but with it comes an
assessment of what I have and what I do not.
Right now I have hives from who knows what, poison ivy in my yard and
bees I am allergic to.
The future
holds all things. A chance one of my
children will give me a grandchild. The
possibility of another trip to Europe. Maybe
a boyfriend before I am 80.
Wish what
you want. Wishing is good. Wishing is rich and free.
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