by Amanda Austen
I’ve written you a letter. I’m not sure why, because I don’t know where to send it, but there was something I wanted you to know. You see, I did plan for you, sort of, you were on my to do list, a rough draft pinned to the fridge under the ‘I love Ibiza’ magnet. I thought I had plenty of time, but something always came up, a doubt, a better offer, promotion, I thought time was on tap. I did feel a pang of something but thought it was indigestion from the kebab I ate, while waiting at the taxi rank at 3am.
My friends drifted in the opposite direction and settled down with 2.4 children. I tried to look interested, faking my smile as they discussed breast or bottle, while in my head pondering red or white. My 30’s arrived, and friends became strangers, too busy on school runs, too tired for nights out, while I went on a few more ‘speed’ dates, just friends’ dates, internet dates. And then as if overnight, 40 was banging at the door and it was ‘waiting for life to begin dates’, ‘been there, done that dates’, ‘crisis of confidence’ dates. I thought I had plenty of time when buying meals for one.
Mirror Mirror on the wall – skin duller, hair greyer, body sagging. But a lucky swipe right and swept off my flip flops, microwave meals relegated for candlelit tables in swish restaurants, colourful roses and tulips brightening each room and starry evenings gazing and sharing.
‘Will you marry me,’ he said – PS I don’t want children. A thunder bolt struck my framed world of contentedness. I declared the need for space and solitude and considered his revelation with a meal for one and a bottle of wine. If I’m honest a nudge of relief settled in the depths of my core, but then I felt a niggle, a yearning, an insistent pang of broodiness, so I wrote a pros and cons list, and my answer was… no…maybe…yes…NO. I wanted you to have a chance to be.
But it was too late. The barman called ‘Time’ as I sipped my flat prosecco. My body was tired of whispering, nudging, suggesting and finally spoke loud and clear. I don’t know the exact moment, it didn’t arrive with cake and balloons, or make an announcement over loudspeakers. It didn’t ring a warning bell. It just crept into my body and mind, changed the settings, and crept away.
And then I knew. I stirred regret and gin with a handful of ice cubes. My stomach bulged, but not with you, with an alien taking up residence, stealing nourishment, words, perspective, and reason. My body and mind were strangers, keeping me company with my dog; who was in season. I should have listened harder for the ticking, but I didn’t. Or maybe I did?
I have to admit, I thought I wouldn’t care. I thought when the time came it would pass without recognition, but it didn’t. And I did care.
Now I’m 50. I’ve lost my keys, again. I’ve lost my words, my mind, my oestrogen. I’m drifting, irrational, impatient, emotional, hot, and tired, so tired. I’m lost in a field of oats, too late to sow them with pink ribbon in my hair.
But I have a puppy.
I’m sorry you never had the chance to be.
Amanda Austen lives in Lincolnshire and is currently studying an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Lincoln. She is working on her first manuscript that reflects her experience of the menopause through poetry and short stories. She has three poems published in Links & Inks inaugural anthology As The Leaves Turn that strives to represent writers in Lincolnshire.
Photo by Yasin Arıbuğa on Unsplash
