Picture this. Ten years from now, youāre sitting in a big house, all white picket fence and porch swings. Ten years ago you swore youād be living in a big city with her by your side but something happened along the way and you watched as those plans disintegrated in the palms of your hands. You watch the sunrise and you watch the sunset and you wonder if sheās somewhere on the other side of the planet like she promised. āI gotta get out of here,ā she said, āit doesnāt matter how I do it or where I go, Iām getting out.ā
Picture this. Twenty years from now, you find your first grey hair. You dutifully have that middle aged panic attack that everyone seems obliged to have and you screw up your eyes and pull it out. Your life is pretty steady now: good, calm, like youāve finally figured things out. āIām getting old,ā you grumble. And somewhere, at the back of your mind, you wonder if sheās getting old too.
Picture this. Fifty years from now your hair is like snow (if you have any, that is). Your walking stick is your new best friend and memories seem to flit in and out of your head like clouds in the sky. Most days you canāt remember what you had for breakfast or what youāll have for tea, and some days itās beginning to hurt to breathe. Itās on these occasions, when your chest is heavy and you have to sit down, that you remember her. You think how true it is that you donāt forget the people you loved when you were young. You may not remember yesterdayās weather but you remember the fifty year old summer breeze and complaining about her hair in your face. āI wonder if sheās happy,ā you say, and people mistake it for mindless rambling. āI hope she found what she was looking for.ā
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