mlle. h. bean

Someday I will write the words "for decades of my life" and it will mean something to me. Quite possibly the phrase 'for decades' will fascinate me, spin memories in my mind, and I will want to shout it from the rooftops--decades! like cascading years, decadent and cadenced. I will want to ensnare younger people in my words, thinking that the full richness of them will be obvious to them, that the patience I have learned over the span and stretch of these decades will make them nod their heads in approval, in understanding. But like the word Berlin if one has never been there, the images and stories will slip quietly past them, unnoticed, and leave only an empty phrase--for decades. Period. There is no meaning there yet. They will look at me and not know, and though it is alright and well and good and supposed to be that way, will I feel cut-off, alienated? Will I feel discouraged, at the difference?

Will I be more patient then? Reading a whole newspaper, each article, even if they don't interest me? Or will they all interest me then? I doubt it. When I have lived five --or six,or seven-- decades and the years are stacking up, rich, amusing, blending; who will I be?

At this point I can't even claim two. But this doesn't get me down. Rather, this is a wonderful thing. So long left to live. So much more to see and to do.