And oh god please save the pep talks.
I was going to be a doctor. An artist. Travel the world. Fly jets for the army. Become a famous poet.
Build a round house with an ocean view and ...be.
I've done none of the things I wanted to do when I was young.
There was always an excuse. A job to be done, a child or 5 to care for. A child or 2 to grieve. A mother, and a husband, and a boss, to defer to. Second fiddle, back burner, tomorrow, later - always for the sake of someone else. All I have done is age. And not well.
As a young girl, I kept a journal. I remember the way the paper smelled, the scratch of the pencil against it, like my words whispering back at me - sympathetic, understanding - the way they welcomed, embraced even, my dreams.
Now all those spiral notebooks lay strewn about the floor of a little girls' memory; silent, pages open, spread like the wings of dead birds. Flightless, in a building filled with abandon.