I had a pretty good idea where I’d find it. It was probably in the ghastly, spiral, wire-bound, fushia-floral photo album — the one with the adhesive lined pages so whatever you mounted on them was irretrievable — stuck for eternity, further hermetically sealed by the plastic overlay. (I can feel my scrap-booking friends Kim and Mary-Elizabeth wincing now.)
And my memory served. There toward the back of the album was the weathered newspaper clipping. Less than an inch square of column space attesting to the dreams and aspirations of a much, much younger me.
It was important to me to find it again. To unearth my own relic, find my chalk marks on my own cave wall. There had been a time I really thought I’d go to law school, travel to Paris, change the world.
We’ve all had dreams that haven’t come to fruition. Some we’ve given up on or changed our minds about. Some we just hang on to in those dormant spaces of our psyche, never quite believing in them but unwilling to let them go.
Funny things, dreams; how they seem to come true all by themselves. Sort of like when you stop trying to remember something the thought will eventually come to you? You can keep a dream buried a whole long lifetime and sometimes it just wakes up and comes about.
No. I’m not going to law school… yet. But very soon I am going to Paris. And when I come back? Hmmm. I just might change the world.