dreaming ...

By the time I reached my teens,

a dream had taken shape in my mind.

I would go to college. Or not.

It didn't seem important, though I never dared

mention that to my parents.

But somehow, I would become financially independent and

head for the beach.

I would find a tiny, adorable cottage just across the street from the beach.

It would be extra-nice if no other cottages were in sight.

I would write and perhaps paint and create marvelous

works of art which people would buy

so that I could support myself.

(Though I did want to marry and have children,

this dream would come before all that.)

My cottage would be, well, cottage-y,

with weathered gray clapboards and green shutters.

And wooden floors worn smooth.

I would walk the beach and head back to my cottage,

thick patches of sea grapes lining the path.

Of course there would be a porch with a hefty wicker rocker,

perhaps the one I still have

that has rocked four generations of my family.

On balmy, wind-whipped mornings,

I would wrap in a quilt in the rocker

and greet the day with a mug of steaming coffee.

That romantic dream still swirls in my head,

especially at the tail end of winter here in Ohio.

Oh, the mind of a dreamy artist.

But now I dream of a bigger cottage,

with room for a husband to putter

and me to write.

I'll make soup and bread and cookies

 for our children and grandchildren,

arriving for a visit.

And after long walks on the beach

and a bedtime snack,

I will pray with them and tuck them in under quilts

while the wind whips outside our cottage.