Maybe we’ll sit at the old oak table Saturday mornings reading our respective newspapers, our readers at the tips of our noses so we don’t have to tilt our heads between conversation and perusal.

Maybe we’ll watch the sunset through the Weeping Cherry Tree.

Maybe we’ll visit Alaska and see the Aurora Borealis, with our cavernous mouths open to the sky.

Maybe we’ll watch television on the same couch.

Maybe we’ll agree on who has the best taste in music.

Maybe we’ll have more babies.

Maybe we won’t.

Maybe we’ll pack our belongings (and children) into an old van to visit Michigan, smelling the earth on our skin.

Maybe we’ll never stop holding hands.

Maybe we’ll come into lots of time.

Maybe we’ll come into a little time.

Maybe we’ll discuss the issues minorities face in a broken world, wondering how corrupt leaders hearts must beat, why we have free will.

Maybe we’ll just eat dinner in silence.

Maybe we’ll dance.

Maybe we’ll sell this big old house and move to the country.

Maybe we’ll do our work at the old oak, like adults.

Maybe we’ll savor.

Maybe we’ll never stop laughing.

Maybe we’ll never look back, longing for anything more than we have right now.

One thought on “perhaps

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