I tap on the imaginary brake pedal.

“Honey, it still doesn’t work,” Paul sighs, staring straight ahead.  The eye roll implied in his tone is hidden behind his sunglasses.

“Well, we need to get it fixed!” I say with mock alarm and then add “When my book is published you won’t have to drive me to work anymore,” nodding as I survey the dirt encrusted snow mounds passing by the car window.  The snow is brown this time of year, with splotches of yellow, like frozen lemonade; the byproduct of zealous dogs marking temporary territory. I wince at the thought of urine soaked sidewalks, the snow like a black- light highlighting the DNA no one wants to see. 
 “Will I have to cook your meals, clean the house and wash your nasty little underwear anymore?” He asks.

“You are the man behind the man,” I say magnanimously, not fully appreciating the subtext until I say it.  This time Paul uses a finger to lower his sunglasses on his nose so that I can see that he has decided to focus on the innuendo.  My one raised eyebrow tells him to get his mind out of the gutter, but he knows that is where I like it.
Smiling, I return to my thoughts.  Having just completed a memoir writing class my focus lately has been looking at my life through the dual lenses of memory and meaning. My goal: to write a short memoir piece that would be accepted for publication in a literary magazine, which has been accomplished and will be published in the fall.

What else can I achieve?  There is only one way to find out.  Less time to write blog posts, I’m afraid, but more time to write chapters.
“Who will play you in the movie?”  Paul asks. 

I consider his question as I look through the car window.  The snow melts and the sun paints the topical waters orange.  Palm trees whisper in the wind.  I dip my toes into the pool and breathe in the heady jasmine scented air.

If you are going to dream, dream big and dream in color.


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