Time Travelling

In this post I am supposed to describe myself as an eighty year-old then I am supposed to write a letter to myself from that perspective.

Me as an Eighty Year Old

I sort of expect that my husband will be dead by then. That probably seems dark, but my grandmothers and mother all outlived their men, so I'm only assuming. So, I'll probably be a widow. Let's also suppose that I don't have a major blowout myself and die, which I'm starting to believe is highly probable.

At the end of my life (before I get scuttled off to a nursing home) I imagine that I'll be living in a small town in Southern Alberta. I can't imagine doing a lot of family history work like my grandmothers (because they did it all), but I can imagine going to the temple often. Once I am retired and tired, I'd like to go to the temple every morning from Tuesday to Friday. I'd think of it as going to school. Then in the afternoon, I'd go home to my cozy little house with my little yard and potter around (I started weeding my yard for one of my artist dates and I think I'm in love) and eat a cucumber sandwich before taking a nap on my back porch and then painting or writing or crocheting or embroidering the rest of the afternoon. For supper, I'd make food for guests. I'd always have guests. If I couldn't have my family (and I'd definitely be a great-grandma by then) then I'd have the neighbours. Everyone would love coming because by then I'd be a really fantastic chef. And when they'd come to visit, they'd walk around my house and love every bit of it because all my paintings would be up on the walls. My grand kids would say, "Hey Grandma? Can I have this when you die?" And I'd say, "You can have it right now." And I'd have room on my wall for another picture. I'd still have long hair then too, and when my grand kids woke me up in the night, they'd see my braid going down my back. And if my hair didn't turn out to be a very pretty gray colour than I'd dye it silver/white. I'd be kind of chubby too because I'd make such great food. And when I went to church on Sunday, I wouldn't be shy and everyone in the ward would know me. I'd help out all the time. And I'd still love my husband. I'd love him forever.

Now for my letter to myself.

Dear Sapphirefly,

You and I both know you went by that name in your twenties.

Listen up kid! Life seems like it's rocketing past for you at light speed, but that speed won't last forever. You are going to have hours and hours stretching out before you instead of having to cram the things you really want to do into ten minute intervals. Enjoy the pleasures of the time you are in right now, because when you're my age you are going to be alone most of the time. That doesn't mean that your family doesn't love you, but they are going to be on their own rockets and it might be hard for them to get away. You need to cultivate your talents for sociability so that you can make friends where ever you are. That way you can be alone when you want to be and with your friends when you can't stand the sound of your own voice. Trust me. That time will come.

But you know even though you are supposed to enjoy the time you're in, that doesn't mean that you shouldn't pursue the things you're interested in. If you don't have anything in your life other than your precious children, things are going to get awfully boring later on.

As for your writing - that's not the most important thing in your world. I think you know that where you're at now. When you write a story, it's because there's something you want to say, but obviously not everyone wants to hear you talk. If you write books, even if you make a million dollars there's no guarantee that your grand children will like them anymore than your mother likes your books now. When you write - it's for the audience at large and not your personal family. So don't expect that to be the heritage that you leave when you die. When you die - there will be family mourners - not fans. But don't let that bother you. The people there will be the ones that actually ate your pumpkin pie instead of those who just read about it. Besides, the rush you get when a fan writes you a hysterical letter isn't as precious as your baby girl telling you she loves you. But go ahead - write - but like anything that you make in this world - don't expect it to last forever. Nothing lasts forever except the love you share with the people around you.

Now go to sleep sweet little girl. You've got a lot of work to do if you want to catch up to me. And anyway, I have to go clean the house since you're coming to live here with me.

I love you.

S.