Dreams

Once I dreamt of time.
Or rather I longed for time,
Resenting the life I had then.
I am drained by all of this, I complained.
I should have been somebody else
On some other journey.
Not this one.
This isn't who I am.

If I had time, I sighed,
I would write beautiful words.
I would learn so much, all that there is to learn.
There would be time for painting,
Walking, singing.
I would be wise and peaceful.
I would claim my other life,
The one I am missing
Because of all of this!

My mother died young.
Her time stolen suddenly
By a blow to the head.
Her time stolen stealthily
By young love.
Bitter sweet fruits,
Those babies on her hip
And around her knees.
Did she dream of time too?

My mother never played piano,
They tell me.
Though one sat dusty and unplayed
In our living room.
I imagined her chances had been stolen.
In her other life, her hands
Danced across the keys.
In this one they washed pots,
changed nappies, sold vegetables.
And the piano was chopped up,
Burned.
In our garden.

My sister once told me,
"I am afraid I too will die too soon.
He is taking away my time,
It cannot continue this way."
She left him for another life.
A mother studying history,
Driving a bus to pay the bills.
She is still alive - just.
She lives with another man now.

These are our lives.
Our symphonies written.
What will I do now,
I have the dream of time?