Thirty Years Hence

When she gave birth to you, your mom lay resting in her bed and wondered what you would be like three decades up ahead. She thought you might decide to be a monk withdrawn from life. You'd ponder all the mysteries alone and far from strife. Perhaps you'd be a bon vivant — pursuing mirth and wine. You'd burn through life like through a wick, but that would be just fine. Or you'd select a scholar's path — a thinker deep in thought. You'd spend your days reflecting on what matters and does not. Your mother would not mind if you became the artsy type, creating paintings, songs or yarns and puffing on a pipe. But then you might elect to be political perchance. You'd run for office and proclaim this or another stance. A man of science in a lab would not have put her off. A Nobel prize is not a goal at which good mothers scoff. What she could not have guessed back then but what has since come true is that it took you thirty years to just emerge as... you.