Maybe Dreams Do Come True.
Maybe it’s four months from now, or maybe it’s several years down the line. I’m hoping for the former, but I will wait if I have to. It’s the future, and I’ve made it as an author. No more scrubs and stethoscopes for me. Ever. Again.
It’s 6:30 a.m., and the tropical breeze sweeps over my lanai and into my bedroom. From outside, I can hear the buzz of the local groundskeeper mowing the lawn with a weed whacker – Hawaiian style. It’s music to my ears. I roll out of bed and put on my running clothes. By 6:45, I’m out the door, and my feet start pounding against the pavement. I quickly make my way down the road. In no time, I find myself running alongside the Pacific Ocean. There are no headphones on my ears, nor is there an iPhone in my hand. I would never want to miss the glorious sound of the waves.
An hour later, I’m back home as my daughter rolls her teenage carcass out of bed. With a head full of curly, tangled locks, Nicole stumbles into the kitchen and devours a bright yellow papaya. With her mouth full of the delectable fruit, she smiles. As I look at her, I can’t believe how beautiful she has become, and how at peace she looks. She no longer looks strained and worried. None of us do. I sneak up behind her and steal a bite of her fruit. Before she can bat me away, I kiss her cheek with my sticky lips, leaving the faint impression of peach-colored juice on her skin.
My husband strolls in with a cup of coffee in his hands. His skin is tan, his blonde hair bleached out from the sun. He hasn’t bothered to shave in three days. None of us mind.
I drop Nicole off at school and head down to the beach. With an umbrella in one hand and my beach bag in the other, I plant myself in a secluded area of the sand, spread out my towel, and spend the next six hours engrossed in writing my next novel. At 3:00, the alarm on my phone sounds. Instinctively, I jump. After years of being haunted and controlled by a pager, it will take some time before the reflexive feeling of dread disappears whenever I hear something beeping. I dig through my bag and fish out my phone. It’s time to pick up my daughter from school.
I arrive ten minutes late and see Nicole talking to some boy. He’s local, and appears to be quite taken with my child. For her part, Nicole looks radiant. Her light tan sets off her sparkling blue eyes, and her long, blonde hair wisps across her face in the gentle breeze. She spots me and blushes slightly. I smile and gesture for her to take her time. Finally, she and her young suitor part ways, and she jumps into the car. The tie from her bikini peaks out of the top of her shirt. I put the car into drive and head to our favorite beach.
Once there, without saying a word, the two of us unload our standup paddleboards from the roof rack, grab our paddles, and head out to sea. Minutes later, we are a hundred feet off shore – just the two of us. In our solitude, we talk about our day. Nicole asks about my novel, and then she divulges details about the mystery man. Our conversation is easy, happy, and unrushed. Two hours later, the sun is starting to set. As we paddle toward shore, my husband waves to us from the sand. I can see his boogie board propped up beside him, and his hair is still wet from the ocean.
Nicole and I grab our boards and hike them up onto the shoreline. James has the coals heating on our transportable Weber grill. There’s a cooler filled with hot dogs and bratwursts. The three of us sit together in the sand with our wet, salty bodies huddled up together as we watch the golden sun dip into the sea. As the sky turns into a masterpiece of colors, we enjoy our humble dinner. Tomorrow, we will wake up and do it all again.
Happiness . . . At Last!
