I hardly considered when twenty, and wed
That a formal career could have suited instead.
The options to this weren’t yet to arise
While I tended my children in aproned disguise.
Who would have guessed that the hands in the sink
Belonged to a woman with real thoughts to think?
Should I, while in “youth” (for I’m still 39)
Be checking new offers in Fate’s Grand Design?
Does Destiny state that my life holds in store
Brief sentence as housewife, then joys evermore
As artist esteemed, of Impressionist style
Or pianist renowned if I practice a while?
A writer of poems or novels long wrapped
In ribbons of fantasy still safely trapped
Until such a time that it’s right to unlock
My erudite thoughts caught by calendars’ clock?
Or “competent asset” as husband, elated,
Would say if I offered my talents, (unstated)
To help him our burgeoning business to run
As earlier on I had willingly done.
Unknown to the kids, and to him at this stage
My unsettled feelings, confused by my age.
Bring fantasy thoughts of alternative lives
Til obliged to “grow up” when THAT birthday arrives.