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.