I was so pragmatic as a young woman that it was hard to allow myself to dream. I loved to draw, but I couldn’t see myself making a living from it, so I stopped drawing. I balled up my dreams like a tight wad of paper and got a job that I worked for 40 years.
But the thing about dreams is even if you don’t believe that they are possible they never die, not completely. They hover in your peripheral where you catch fleeing glimpses of them. They become ghostly orbs that float just beyond reach. They become the agonizing question, “What if?”
I have smoothed out the furled paper that once represented my dreams. It’s tattered, crinkled, and yellowed.
The dream I now have is different from the dream of yesterday. Both dreams deal with being creative. I draw pictures and paint with my grandsons, but no one has to like them but us.
I dream now of becoming a renowned author. Writing stories for my Sistah’s pleasure. Telling stories where she can escape, dream, or contemplate.
No one has to like the books I have written or the ones I will write, but my dream is that they will.