“Someday.” It seems like a safe enough word, almost wistful, and if one listens closely, it has with it the tinkling of bells – of hope, of desire, of longing. Only, it sneaks up and arrives before its time and comes to pass without coming true, for most. Look and you can see in its wake many unrealized dreams.
I look around, look within, look at memories – to the eyes of my father, my grandfather, my grandmother – those who have left us behind. Do they have regrets?
I know “someday”. I could have sworn that I have seen it in my father’s eyes.
For most of my life, I only knew stability and stability was my father. We never knew a day of hunger or scrambling to pay for expenses. There were those occasional trips to the restaurant at the corner, new clothes, new toys. By social standards we probably did not have much, but we did not know it, which was good. My father did dabble in some businesses, little attempts and little clues at what went on in his brilliant mind. He probably knew that there was another way, a better way and took a few stabs at it, albeit half-heartedly because he had mouths to feed and he could not falter or make time for dreams or take uncalculated risks. He was a responsible father and it was just not right. So he clung to his employment as if it was his and our salvation. It was ours. But I am just not sure if it was his.
Sometimes I could see him lying on his bed, eyes to the ceiling, far away.
It is almost funny. What people want most in life is time – time to do what they want and the opportunity to do what it is they want but it seems that they get lost in the search, and get stuck, then they pine for that lost time which they can never get back.
How many times have I been told: Do not be too happy, save for a rainy day, wait for the right time? How many times have I been the recipient of disapproving looks, of heads shaking from side to side at a perceived indulgence: a trip, a particularly risky endeavor, a trinket, careless laughter? To this my husband says: Do not mind them. This is our life. When do we do it? When rheumatism is killing our backs? When seeing or hearing the waves would make us crouch in fear? When cobblestones and fountains of the places in the postcards are obstacle courses that we see through eyes heavily veiled by cataracts and we could no longer stand straight or smile for pictures? When we already need to breath through tubes and all we ever want is to sleep and to never wake up?
Yes indeed. When?
It seems that dreaming in the present day is a crime, pursuing an interest is a crime, being happy or enjoying without having hedge funds is a crime. People are too hard on themselves and are too busy. But, if they are to be believed, they are busy getting to their dreams.
I wonder: Has my father met his someday and looked away?
You can read the conclusion here….