It’s really weird, isn’t it, to think that in fifty or sixty years, if I make it that far, my world will be so unfathomably different than it is right now.
I am sitting on my bed, in my dorm. A freshman in college with polka-dotted sheets and pink and orange, vibrant decor. A book on one side of me, my computer and phone on the other. So new to the world of real things. So new to living on her own, as her own.
In sixty years, where will I be? A stout little grandmother making my life with love and horses and big scary dogs in Wyoming or Montana? With a big, open house and plenty of kids around. And space to run and ride and work and learn.
Or will I be in the city somewhere, teaching master classes? Speaking and reading and developing new ways to think of music and education. Probably alone since that work is intense. I might have a decent apartment with plenty of books and a red coffeemaker.
Maybe I’ll be huddled near my sister in some suburb somewhere. A well-to-do, all-is-well, everything’s-the-same neighborhood. I can sit trapped in the house that’s identical to everyone else’s and write away while my sister’s grandchildren play nearby.
I don’t know. But I was just sitting here thinking, in fifty years, will I remember this exact moment? Will I recall that day when I sat and breathed and looked around, wondering if I’d remember? What will I think of my eighteen-year-old self? What would I tell her? What will I know then that is still a mystery to me right now?
What people will I have come across? What other lives that are strangers to me now will have brushed against mine? What lives will my family and I have lived?
Who will I be when I am old?