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.
