When I was young, I dreamed up a hollywood life, full of flashy lights and perfect endings; hyperbolic scenes of families gathered around large, vibrantly decorated tables at holidays, bursting with banter between siblings and parents; heightened fights with teenage daughter which inevitably ended in a softly lit bedroom, on a bay window overlooking a cul de sac, a bear hug of apologies and forgiveness
What I got was stable life on a continuum that has a conveyor belt pace to it: calm, cool, collated; a small dining table with two empty seats over looking a cul de sac with a neighbor’s five year old daughter whose squeals echo into our house; a mostly tranquil line of events each day and freedom, tons of freedom.
My life may not be the one I dreamed up a millions years ago when I laid in the dark on my twin bed at night wondering where I’d end up as a grown up; still my grown up life is pretty flashy, sets rotating like a QVC sale, and I do declare, it ain’t bad, not bad at all.
