Not Yet--Maia

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. I thought that maybe I had lost something, but I didn’t know what. I wasn’t even quite sure that I ever had it in the first place.

A yellow leaf floated down from the branch above me and landed on my frozen nose, which was so numb that I barely felt it as what remained of autumn brushed past and shook me out of my reverie. I supposed it was time to head home.

I continued to people-watch as I began to walk from the park bench to my car, this time with my sketchbook closed and in my coat pocket. I looked across the grassy field. A teenage girl was sitting at one of the old wooden tables and reading from a textbook. She was probably no more than 17. I imagined what it must be like to be her. She must have been at that age when one felt like there were decisions to be made about what they wanted to do with the rest of their life looming in front of them. Oh, I hated making decisions at her age. There were so many possibilities. What should she choose? How could she ever choose? She must have wished that she could do everything at once. Maybe she wanted to be a poet, an astronomer, an artist, a teacher. To take a gap year and travel-- no, to be finished with school as soon as possible— no, she wanted to earn a PhD. It must have been so wonderful to have all those possibilities laid out in front of her like dozens of tubs of flavors behind a glass window of an ice cream shop, and knowing that she had yet to choose. Knowing that any one of those possibilities could still become reality.

My forgotten lost thing was still bothering me on my drive past the cookie-cutter houses of the freshly built tract homes in the neighborhood adjacent to my own. I thought again about that girl at the park. I remembered swearing that I wouldn’t live in the suburbs after moving out of my parents’ home. I used to find the suburbs boring and sad, a picture-perfect facade to mask the discontent of the people living in them. Although, I did see now why people--including myself-- chose to live in them. They were easy to find and in practical locations. They were fine homes, good homes even. I thought about the lovely little village up north I had visited once. Maybe I could move there one day. Maybe once I redid the kitchen, my house would finally be ready to sell. Maybe then I could move.

I stopped at the stop sign and watched a little girl in green overalls play hopscotch on the sidewalk. I never really wanted kids-- no, no, I didn’t. It was never the right time. Kids would just be a hassle. I was too busy. I couldn’t have kids. I would never have time for gardening. I just knew my hydrangeas would die-- I just knew it. No, I didn’t want kids.

A car honked behind me. I lifted my foot off the brake. What was I missing? I thought that maybe it had been lost for quite some time. It must have happened before I moved into my new home that my new job had paid for. Yes, it was before then, and that was many years ago. I had a feeling I could never quite get it back. I didn’t realize I hated my job until I had worked there much too long. It was only supposed to be temporary. I was only supposed to work there until I figured out what I actually wanted to do. I always figured I would quit and find something better when it was the right time. I liked reading. Maybe I could be a librarian. Yes, maybe a librarian.

I parked in my driveway and walked into the house, the sound of my shoes on the wood floors echoing as I made my way to my bedroom.

All of a sudden, I felt quite scared. I got like this sometimes, sudden bursts of fear. It was not unlike feeling as if you had forgotten to do something very important and knowing that you could never go back and fix it. It was like being back in school and oversleeping on the day of the final exam or forgetting it was your mother’s birthday. The problem was, I could never place the source of the fear. I went over it in my mind, again and again, it was Saturday, yes, it wasn’t a workday. It was the middle of November and my parents were both born in the summertime. The stove was off: I checked it twice. I checked to make sure that my oven wasn’t on either. The digital clock told me it was 8:37 pm. It was getting late. I gave up and got ready for bed.

I dreaded those few minutes (I supposed it was sometimes hours) before I finally drifted off to sleep. My mind could think such dreadful thoughts. It was silly, I was just tired. I liked my life quite a lot. Yes, it was a fine life, a good life. I had lots of time to think about all the places I wanted to visit one day if I ever got the chance. I had always wanted to go to New Zealand. And Japan would be a nice trip. And of course Ireland. But I just couldn’t leave now. I just couldn’t leave yet. It wasn’t a good time. There was so much to do. There was so much I hadn’t done yet. Oh, and I just couldn’t leave until I got my home just perfect! I wasn’t very pleased with how it was now. I think it was about time the bathrooms were repainted. No, I wasn’t ready, I didn’t want to go yet.

I didn’t want to go.

No one answered the phone when it rang at 9:27 a.m. the next morning. The caller left a voicemail:

“Anne! Happy Birthday! You’re 92 now, aren’t you? ”