I am me. And that’s all I can be.
I wrote this:
I think back to the dreams I had,
dreams of what my life would be.
Sleepy mornings with milky coffee,
the clink of the spoon stirring in the sugar,
crossword puzzles and a new day.
I dreamed I would bake my own bread,
pull peach pies out of the oven,
write in journals while sipping lattes
at the neighborhood cafe.
I would sit at the bar in the evenings,
enjoying an aperitif, or a glass of champagne.
I would wash dishes by hand in a sinkful of suds,
and he would dry them with flour-sack towels.
I would take long walks, and stop to pick
the loquats that grew from neighbors’ trees.
I would listen to old records,
take afternoon naps,
and read book after book after book.
There would be candlelight,
And today I realized that it is no longer a dream,
but my life,
and until now I have been too scared to admit
that my life is a dream.