If I were an analphabet, I would typify myself as a valley, accentuated with a mutable lawn, adorned with a burst of regal flowers covering a decadent book and a thesaurus, ready to leap at any moment’s notice. I would use the brightest, most piercing letters I could find in the dictionary, creating a sitcom of chatty words that would silently parachute onto paper—those lofty ones, humorously sedating the phrases waiting, cocooned in their flash drives, ready to be printed. Snitching on the thesaurus, it wasn’t as Google says—“don’t call me by my name.” Embracing the pitiable paragraph about an engraved picture, it was but a musical note… or perhaps it wasn’t either.
If I could speak to my soul—if she were my twin sister—I would tell her stories of what ifs.
What if I had taken that road? What if I had bought that house by the river? What if I had taken a helicopter ride? What if I had taken that job? What if I had moved to Milan? What if I had not gotten married? What if I had not gone to the beach? What if I had written a play? What if I could read the footprint? What if I had changed lanes? What if I had driven a Mercedes? What if I had written a story? What if I had brought more joy? What if I had sung that song? What if I had stayed single? What if I had written a cookbook? What if I had gone to the movies? What if I had learned to dance tango? What if I had taken that trip? What if I had said yes when I said no? What if I had said no when I said yes? What if had learned how to play the guitar? What if I had started earlier? What if I had waited longer? What if I had followed my fear? What if I had followed my courage? What if I had learned German? What if I had planted a garden? What if I had bought that little café? What if I had called back? What if I had written more letters? What if I had forgiven sooner? What if I laughed less? What if I had loved louder? What if I had listened more? What if I had taken the long way home? What if I had watched more sunsets? What if I had danced when the music played?
Life can feel like a slew of “what if” buttons popping out of a refrigerator door, as if you could press one and see where it might lead. I don’t know where they would have taken me. But I do know that this is the path I have taken, and here I am.
Perhaps it isn’t the chimney I once dreamed of standing beneath, but it is the pot God intended for me to cook in—the perfect recipe, made with all the sauces and ingredients of my life.
I was at church this morning. I decided to sit in the garden area at one of the tables as I waited for someone. My eyes were closed, taking in the breeze, meditating, just chilling. Or so I thought.Then this lady, we had been on the same meeting but it was the first time I had seen her, came along — oh, Jesus — and decided to make herself at home right where I was sitting. Clearly, God was testing my patience. It is Lent, after all, and the devil was trying me. She wanted to converse. She came with a lot of sheets, and I… well, I didn’t.
She: “The air is so beautiful, calm and quiet.” Me (eyes closed, quietly): “Yes.” She: “I wonder if the seminarian is still here.”
I was thinking, *what in the fruit-loop world is she talking about?* I didn’t reply because I had no idea who she meant. Meanwhile, the priest walked by. She asked him and got her answer. I thought that settled it. We’re done. Let me be.
Nope. Not enough.
She kept going and going and going. I would vaguely reply, ignoring her as often as I could, but then…
She: “Are you praying?” Me: “Yes.” She: “Oh, I am sorry.” Me: “That’s okay.”
Now, you would think we were squared away. Case closed, right? She would move to one of the other four empty tables.
Nope.
She stayed. She put her phone on speaker and started singing because she needed to call Patricia. Oh, Jesus.
Apparently, Patricia had invited her to the 11 o’clock mass so she could hear her singing, but then she realized Patricia had already called, left her a voicemail, so no call was needed. She would call her later.
We’re done now, right?
Nope.
She went on again like the Energizer Bunny, talking about baptism, Catholicism, and other things. And all I kept praying was, “Lord, give me the chalupas… grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” The devil was trying me hard.
I felt like screaming and telling her to shut the front door and go away — but I didn’t. I quiet the noise and patiently went along with the script.
I had options, though:
1. I could have easily moved to another table. 2. I didn’t want to make her feel bad, so I stayed. 3. I was there first and didn’t ask for company. My eyes were closed, lady. So technically, she could have left.
Next time, I’ll just run inside the church. Ciro, our pianist, was playing.
ludlum drive 
You must be logged in to post a comment.