I also had big dreams for myself.

As a child, I’d sit by the window on rainy days, staring outside until the trees looked like veins across the sky.  In that blur, I envisioned the best “me” a seven year old could: Twenty One, Barbie hair trailing behind me in the pink- no, red convertible, The beautiful man by my side, the fat wallet in his pocket, and the ring on my finger.

As I got older, and more sophisticated, the dreams followed suit. I was a doctor, a marine biologist, a forensic investigator (long before I developed a taste for Sherlock Holmes) and finally, a musician, a poet, an artiste.

Is there an element of art in what I am doing now? Hardly. I am 42 years old, though I’m not sure for how long. In the morning it hurts when I step out of bed. The intravenous port itches, but I can’t touch it without gloves. I’m not sure why they even let me stay here, I wonder if its out of pity or negligence. This apartment is old, and I’ve taken to re-tiling the bathroom floor because I don’t know what else to do with my time.

Years ago, at this time of day, I’d be buzzing from room to room, taking care of “just a few things” before running off to pick the kids up from school. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard little footsteps.