After a week of dreary weather, today was wondrous, bright sunshine, no wind. I wanted to go bicycle riding, but I give up a block from home. My bike’s broken, whether it’s the brakes or gears doesn’t matter. Walking it home, I start crying and I can’t stop.
The most tragic words in life are Too Late.
- When I had lapband surgery at 54, I feared it was too late to get my life back.
- When I did get healthy, it was too late to have a child, but not too late to return to teaching.
- Last summer, it was too late for cosmetic surgery to turn me into a hot babe, but not too late to feel comfortable in my own skin.
- At 60, if I want to be a ballerina, it’s probably too late.
- And, today, it’s too late to ride my bicycle.
My parents, step-parents, and grandparents are all gone and I know each of them died with some things undone -- and it’s too late for them.
Too late is tragic because one recognizes what might have been, because one must acknowledge lost opportunity; one must be profoundly self-aware.
I don’t want my last words to be “Too Late.” I will
- find the time and money to go back to Italy and walk in the steep streets of Siena
- contact Bonnie O’Malley and apologize for hurtful words our senior year in high school
- write more poetry and submit some poems for publication
- say “Thank You” more often to the people who make my life better
- ride a boat up the Nile and climb the pyramids
- keep in better touch with friends and family
- hear (and say) the words “I love you” so many times I get bored with them
- take more photographs
- volunteer for Habitat for Humanity
- be a docent at a local museum
- keep this blog updated
- ride my bicycle again
- discover more things I want to do before it’s too late