in my next life i shall be a midwife, catching slippery babies in my arms each day. holding new life in my hands and watching the purplish faces change to red, the first breaths, the first cries. watching miracles happen gives me hope for myself, for the world. monitors, sterile instruments and blood, then the cone-like head of a newborn, handing her over to her parents, flush with love and wonder.
or maybe i’ll be a pastry chef, wearing a tall hat that tames my sweaty tendrils and keeps them from baking into the sticky buns; licking frosting from my fingertips and delighting people with my creme brûlée; placing the ramekins in a bain marie and setting the kitchen on fire while I carmelize the tops with the butane torch.
in my next life i could be an acrobat, or perform in Cirque de Soleil. i’ll hang from ropes of soft fabric and silks, all long limbs and lithe body. i’ll swing through the air with ease, tiptoe lightly across the wooden floor in my bare feet and then leap again into life on the stage where grace is my middle name.
perhaps i’ll be a short-haired street artist in Paris and hold a cigarette to my lips. i’ll sketch caricatures of stupid tourists and work on my memoir during the lulls, then stop for a cappuccino at a sidewalk cafe…the contrast of the stark white demitasse against my ink-stained fingers. my stomach rumbles, the constant affliction of one who can barely afford rent even with roommates, let alone food.
who will you be in your next life?
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