Eighty plus years ago my mother and father moved to Indianapolis. She, to be a writer and he, to be a painter.
But that was an unrealistic fantasy.
She had three babies, became ill and, after a seven year bout with T.B., died at age 34. He struggled, trying to raise and support these children (but not actually doing either of these things very well.) He became relatively successful as an artist only after retirement.
I've been a writer, among other things, all my life. I met a man late in life who's been an artist, among other things, all of his life.
It dawned on my only recently that we, in some ways, are fulfilling my parent's dream.
Last year we were in Paris for several days. We talked about renting an efficiency apartment and staying for 3 months. He to paint, me to write.
But that was an unrealistic fantasy.
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