Time will pass. I hope to marry, though of course I would never tell. And more time will pass. And I hope to get through college. Years will go by. I hope I will quit my job, and die happy. I hope people will forget about me.

But all of that is unrealistic.

I may marry, but it may end. I'm not the most likeable person. And college life may not treat me well. I may not even get in. And I will be poor, a slave until death. I will not die happy, I bring too many misfortunes upon myself. I make too many mistakes.

But people will forget.

We all remember those "Where will I be when I'm 100" projects we did in elementary school. Well, our answers now are likely very different from what they were then. Mine is no exception. Now? Now, I want to be surrounded. When it comes my time to go, I want to be surrounded by a crowd of people whose lives will be forever changed because I left. I don't want to die alone. I want to die knowing a made a difference.

We often recollect our past memories...But have any of you ever think about your own future?

Me?I do wonder what my adult life would look like.

I had my worries and excitement combined...What if I didn't get to achieve my goal?What if I grew up alone?Am I happy during my old age?

I often think of questions like....

Is my old age nearly same as what I think it is?

Where I saw myself sitting on a rocking chair, holding my sketch pad facing the sunset...And when I would look around,I would see my future husband at the corner staring at me, lovingly.Then,He would slowly approach me despite of his now vulnerable body holding his My cane.

The future of us where we would guide each other to the path where our children and their families are having fun.

The place where we will laugh every single embarrassing moment that happened to everyone's life.Where we will all recollect our happy memories starting from when we first met and how do our relationship got stronger.

Having that kind of good memories before my death will surely be worthwhile...

Well... I'm still far from that future of mine....But I hope everything goes fine as I get to that old age of mine.

I want to exist in a palace built out of words I have written. To go into that good night knowing that something that came from my pen held some greater meaning.

I chose a path, to live a life alone. And I have never once regretted it. Because I hold this flickering flame of hope

That my legacy is my words.

And I can go content in that, nothing else mattered at all.

The wind is chiming on a slightly cooler afternoon. Fall has just hit this neighborhood, and the wind chimes bring a slight glow to this neck of the woods. The small children leaving the bus, race to the front door to get their bikes and roam along the streets as a daily ritual. It's almost the time of year you smell pies baking in a windowsill for them to be possibly stolen by sticky fingers and a hungry belly.

The mailman tips his hat at he walks on by - no mail today. Not a strange odyssey since no one who ever know me knows where I live.

I sip the sweet tea in the glass on my left and shrug a cold chill that runs down my back. My hair is pulled back into a bun and my long dress's hem has caught up the slight dirt beneath the swing.

I pull my cardigan close - there is never any mail anyways. Most people don't notice. But I do keep to myself quite often.

I'm in love with the picturesque place they sent me too. A city that I never knew existed until I had received the details.

A small paper with an address and a name. A passport and a id card with a photo that barely looks like the old me.

I grow weary now thinking of all the nights I had stayed up and waited for the relief of death. I had always thought it'd be much more violent in his hands than to be shuttle out of state into a town with no one to talk to about my former life or the people in it.

Instead, I draw peace of mind in that those who may have helped me escape what would have surely been a horrific accident as the news would relay. I am comforted to know that regardless of what they said happened, no one here knows me as anything other than a simple retired school teacher. Who enjoys a sweet tea and a couple of moments on the porch swing before the coolness gets to me.

The children have turned the corner, and I wave at my neighbor politely as they walk to their mailbox.

It's almost time to start making dinner. For one. But one is what I was used too. A life with someone who was never physically or emotionally present, you begin to realize that you really are only cooking for one.

I stood up, stretching my legs slightly. Old bones seem to never let go of the chill in the air during these months.

I take one final survey of this cul-de-sac and bet my lucky stars on the peace within that has continually started to grow outwardly.

I am safe, and when I go to sleep - I have no qualms whether or not I will wake up. I'm just glad that either way, it'll be with a solemn choice that it was mine, and my time.

Another sip of tea before locking the door. Goodnight to all the folks who had to choice but to run. Run and live another life. Lord knows, it's not safe outside.

I‘ll train year round to run marathons. Then charter a hot balloon and soar above the great planes with my man and our grandkids.

I‘ll own the most energy efficient and safe grandpa car around town, but on Sunday I’ll take out the classic Cadillac and cruise around with the top down. My hair will have gone from brown to gray to white, but my mind will stay sharp.

We’ll live in a Spanish style villa with a vast central courtyard. In the mornings I’ll tend to the tropical garden then meditate as I gaze at the passionfruit and palm trees. Some days we’ll be down at the lake on our houseboat, but spend most of the day out on the jet skis.

The grandkids will finally convince me to skydive, and I’ll wonder why I didn’t try it earlier. And when the rapper that I ghostwrite for goes triple platinum, I might finally have the dough to take the whole family on a space cruise. They’re getting less expensive every year.

I’ll have observed my partners culinary expertise long enough that I’ll surprise and even impress him when he comes home from throwing knives to find me making his special tacos with handmade tortillas.

I’ll write every night, and proudly display the novels, short story collections and screenplay credits that I’ve acquired.

The mailbox will fill up with former members of the non profit art center I founded; invites to gallery openings and awards ceremonies, marriage and birth announcements. I’ll still instruct neighborhood paint nights and give generously.