More To

As my road narrows, and the shadows seem to become more significant, mundane thoughts clutter my mind.

The subtle muses of yesterdays’ whys and hows seem stronger and evoke provocative questioning of one’s self.

I remember a once vague ambition or desire, or perhaps a young woman’s foolish dream. I wanted to write a story.

It would be a great fable, even though I had not lived long enough to share much of life’s pains or passions or whims with others.

I recall always writing and telling tales throughout most of my formative years, possibly to avoid loneliness by creating imaginary friends.

There were moments when not only my stories, but also the teller, was rejected for being “strange” or perhaps in the view of less kind opinions, “a bit weird.”

My scribbling became less intense after graduation mostly because I had less time. My days were filled with other aspirations, hopes, and desires. Yet, the small insignificant scraps of paper were always tucked into whatever purse I carried with me either on the subway heading to St.John’s or Lord and Taylor’s for a haircut.

Life abruptly changed when a knight entered my world, arriving not wearing armor on a white steed but rather clutching a schoolbook and standing on a dark subway station.

Yet I never abandoned the scraps of paper and self addressed stamped envelopes that never had a reply.

Until one magical day when I was rewarded with a small essay about my Dad and his only song,

”Mexicali Rose.”

My prize was a ball point pen from a NYC radio station that read my words aloud.

My Mother was aghast saying, “Anne, I have never heard your Father sing.”.

Yet somewhere in the dark recesses of my being, I had heard my beloved Magician sing these words,

“Mexicali Rose, I love you.”

Most likely, it was on a Sunday afternoon after Dad amd I had viewed a Gene Autry movie.

Time passed not so quickly, but there were many changes, marriage, children, and a few departures.

The scraps of paper kept accumulating, but were less frequent, and never shared, even with my beloved.

Still for the first time, some of the words seemed to be different, poems for the Fabulous Four.

The kind youngsters, who never seemed to protest, became accustomed to “My Valentines, one and four,” read aloud at their breakfast table. Hardly an introduction to the great American novel that once had been my hidden desire.

Those breakfasts that once seemed eternal instead were fleeting, as was the tranquility of an intact family.

Without warning the happiest seasons of life were gone, and bleak winter was in view.

Children, no longer youngsters, fled to find their own fortunes and mates and the love of my life was brought home to his reward.

And the story I had planned to tell in the days long gone by had never been told.

Now in the dark of night, I wonder if it is too late, or perhaps I now have more to tell.

And I, now wiser, know it is not my decision.