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So what will I do when the daughter has been packed up and shipped off to the big fancy culinary school way over there in New York state? How will I ever get a handle on this whole living for myself, by myself thing? You know that question... the one about visualizing where you'll be in five, ten, fifteen years? I could never answer that question. I always thought --distantly, detachedly, and not just a little bit morbidly-- the reason I could never picture myself at forty or fifty or sixty was because, maybe, I wasn't ever going to be forty or fifty or sixty. I've always been rather short-sighted... and morbid... like that. It seemed enough to think that I could get the daughter to eighteen and myself to thirty-six. It seemed like a grand achievement, actually. Huge whopping monumental deal, really. So there she is. Here I am. I haven't a clue what comes next. And next. And next. I think I should have an inkling. An idea. A wee bit of a clue. It bothers me more and more that I don't. It weighs, this non-inkling. Weighty weighty weightfullness. _________________________________________ back | forth | archive | contact | diaryland |