Real Dreaming

I remember being the dutiful theatre major years ago. We had an intense six-credit class called Conservatory that separated the serious actors from those flirting around the edges. At one point in the class we were asked to talk about where we saw ourselves in five, ten, fifteen years. I dutifully spat out expected answers about graduate school, about New York, maybe a shift to LA. None of which happened. None of which I really dreamed of having. I was offering expected answers as if “I don’t know” wasn’t acceptable.

These days when I cast my mind to the future, dream about what’s next, it’s certainly different. More honest and true. When I walk into the garden of my dreams, it’s sunny and warm. There’s a light breeze. I’m sitting poolside and the breeze is making it hard to read the Times, but I manage. Our aide, our favorite person in the world, Sharon, has glopped too much sun tan lotion on my bald head. I insisted on no hat and being in the sun. We tussled a bit about that but at 95, I pretty much get what I want. Robert, 99, is nearby and he nagged me to please sit in the shade and I told him I would, in a minute.

Our walkers are standing like metal soldiers to the side. We wobble on our feet but our brains are as sharp as ever. Our quality of life, generally, a high B. We glow with pride as we share news about the new president, a woman, finally, and she is as blue as they come. Sensible and kind. Strong progressive values and a liberal agenda. Another Clinton for Heaven’s sake. Chelsea.