A Writer Gazes Into Her Future

Koi in a pool at the hospital where the author was visiting her dying mother. Photo by the author.

I will have an old grey-muzzled dog I’ve adopted from the shelter and a funky, single-speed cruiser propped up against the side of my weathered, clapboard home.

My 1978 Sunrader camper, its long trips far behind it, will be parked outside, now serving as a guest room for wayfaring friends. I will sit near a trickling stone fountain, koi gliding lazily in the pond nearby, dotted with pink water lilies. Potted plants decorate the rag-tag patio: lacey, jade-colored ferns, nasturtiums blazing in shades of orange and yellow glory. Impatiens’ tendrils trailing downwards. Deep blue hydrangeas that remind me of my grandmother’s home back in Iowa. An over-sized palm, purchased a long time ago when it was the size of a pint jar, threatens to crack its terracotta urn. I keep promising to re-pot it but never do.

The ache sits with me, abides with me. If I do not push it away, it becomes a warmth . . .

I will think of nights of wild abandon from long ago. These memories are as real to me as then. When I rolled over in bed, sheets drenched in musky, sexy sweat, I heard a soft guitar and a woman’s luscious voice singing 'Besame Mucho.' She became another lover in the room. I embraced her, too.

I will remember those I have loved and still love, and those who have loved me. Those whose bodies are gone from this earth and yet are still with me. I yearn sometimes, yearn with such an ache, to reach out and touch them, to see their smiles, to look into their eyes and hear their voices. The ache sits with me, abides with me. If I do not push it away, it becomes a warmth that graces me like a blanket draped over my shoulders. Or the glow from a winter’s hearth with wood we gathered and carried in from the beach. A warmth that shifts from melancholy to gratitude.

I will travel again while sitting with a steaming cup of tea: to far-reaching lands and towns with fanciful names. I will be young again. My body will be my friend. My face will be bright, open, and eager. My plate will be full. There will be sunrises and sunsets, and barefoot sandy beach walks and mountain hikes in old growth forests. I will be humbled under the canopy of majestic 500-year-old trees.

The author in 2017. Photo by Beatrice Angela Jacobs.

I will dream of clear nights when I saw more stars than I thought possible. I will dream of gentle words spoken in my ear, the touch of someone holding my hand, the stroking of a cat in my lap. Of songs sung, stories told, jokes shared. Of times when tears could not be quenched, of times when I laughed so hard it hurt.

I will feel the morning sun as I lift my face to greet it. I marvel at the sunflowers in the garden, their stalks taller than me. I will lie on my back on the bank of a river and do nothing but watch the clouds drift across the sky. Once again (I may never do so again), I will feel the velvet muzzle of a horse, its steamy breath on my cheek.  

I will be grateful for having lived, having given, for forgiving and for being forgiven. For being complete in my imperfection, for being lifted up and rescued when broken. I will be at peace.

Someday, I will be all of these things as I curl up in my chair on a cold, winter day. I will be all of these things, someday, when I am old. ō

SUSANNE SEVEREID is an author and actor/presenter working in journalism and the performing arts. Her books include When Someone You Love Is Dying: Some Thoughts to Help You Through, Mocha Musings: Reflections on Life, Love, and Chance Encounters, and The Death of Milly Mahoney. Susanne lives in Oregon. View Susanne's site.