MAYBE IT ISN’T

I wish I had boarded a plane with my Mom for Rome.  We would upgrade our seats and have champagne before we even took off.  We would giggle like two little girls as we unpack our bags and settle into our hotel.  We would spend long afternoons at sidewalk cafes sipping wine and sharing stories about being a woman, a wife, a mother, a grandmother.   I would take her to St. Peters and the Coliseum and the Borghese Museum.  Our feet would be blistered and sore from walking on the cobblestone which would give us an excuse to spend the evenings eating gelato and people watching.  I would tell her my secrets and she would tell me hers.  But it’s too late for that.

I wish I had visited my Aunt Mary K more often.  We would go shopping at the outlet shops and she would be brutally honest about whether I looked good in something or not.  We would spend the afternoons outside at a park and talk about our shared experiences as nurses.  Then we would head home for a glass of wine before we headed out to dinner since she didn’t cook and insisted on treating me.  We would have another glass of wine at dinner and then another once we got home.  We would talk about politics and watch the talking heads on TV and laugh.  Maybe we would eventually have popcorn and watch a movie before we poured ourselves into bed.  I would get to know her better and understand her life.  But it’s too late for that.

I wish I had spent more time sailing with my Dad.  He would be the captain and I would be the crew.  We would figure out what new skill we were going to learn that day and then we would have a go at it.  We would have difficulty at first and it would be a little scary but then my Dad would figure it out and before long we would be pros at jibing, coming about, tacking.  We would laugh and joke about our inadequacies but would continue to sharpen our skills and be proud of our accomplishments.  At the end of the day we would stop at the yacht club and have a drink or two and maybe even stay for dinner depending on the time.  When we got home we would share our stories of the day with my Mom.  But it’s too late for that.

I wish I had had more patience when my mother in law lived with us.  I would go out for long hikes with her and she would tell me about her childhood, her failed dreams of being a singer, her days as a 40 year old college student and activist.  She would sing for me as we walked, her beautiful voice spanning through three octaves, carrying over the hills that we passed.  She would be joyful and thankful for the company and I would overlook her strange ways and appreciate the difficulties in her life that she had to overcome in order to raise a family that included the man I loved. Sometimes we would hold hands as we walked feeling the beauty of the Marin hills and the beauty of our friendship.  But it’s too late for that.  

I wish I lived closer to my siblings.  Every Sunday we would all get together for dinner and solve each others’ problems as well as the worlds’.  We would help each other with our health problems and complain to each other about our aches and pains.  We would plan trips together some small and domestic, some big and international.  On Tuesday mornings my sisters and I would meet up for pancakes and sausage and “girls’ time” and on Thursday evenings I would meet up with my brother and we would go to a local pub and eat at the bar and have way too much to drink.  The cousins would see each other more than once every few years.  The holidays would include everyones’ families or as many of them as were in town.  I would get to know their grandchildren and they would get to know mine.  Every holiday and birthday would be a reason to get the whole family together and we would develop long held traditions.  But it’s too late for that.  

I wish I had spent some time with my father-in-law.  We would head out to the local bar and he would have beer after beer while I had some white wine and appetizers.  He would regale me with stories about his life before marriage, his war stories and stories of a previous engagement before he married Jon’s Mom.  He would tell me about his childhood after his Mom died and his Dad sent the kids to different relatives.  How he lived on the farm with Aunt Bertha and Uncle  George with his brother and the trouble they got into.   We would share jokes and laugh and tease each other.  Everyone in the bar would know him by name and greet him as they came in or left.  I would be able to experience the love everyone felt for him. But it’s too late for that.  

I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends from the boys’ grade school.  We would meet for lunch and laugh about our aging bodies, our forgetfulness and how intense we were as young parents.  We would reminisce about our volunteer work, the PTA, the carnival, the teachers who we loved and the ones we tolerated.   We would head out for hikes just as we had after dropping the kids off at school back in the day.  We would support each other through struggling adult children, ill spouses, our own surgeries, aging and dying parents.  We would occasionally have a party and drink not near as much as we had at our school events but enough for a nice buzz.  We would hug each other closely and appreciate each other in a way we did not when we spent so much time together years ago.  But it’s too late for that . . .  

or maybe it isn’t . . .