I feel like I’m getting a second chance in life, though I’m not sure why, or even if I deserve it. Twenty some years ago I couldn’t understand why we couldn’t raise kids in an apartment in the city. I couldn’t understand why you couldn’t build your life around traveling the world with those kids, thinking what a wonderful life it would be for the kids and for the entire family. A nice, close little unit, not the Cleavers or the white picket fence, for sure, something different but something good, too, and while I now have figured out how things ended up like they did, it’s not right to belabor the point. The facts are I ended up in the suburbs and never did grow to like it; actually grew to hate it. That was about twenty years ago. A standard prison sentence for serious offenders. I must have done something awful bad in a previous life. Anyway, like I was saying, a second chance. It’s so familiar and so the same and at the same time so different because I’m so much older.
How many times can you start over in a lifetime? Two? Three? A baker's dozen?
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