If only.

It will be on my tombstone.

If only I had ... done this, or that, or spoken up sooner, or, at all.

If only I had ... spent more time with my kids, worked less, run more, eaten better, slept more, oh, hell, that's not true.

I actually don't say that very often. But when I do, it has a powerful effect.

  This year my uncle died. He was 99. And I really thought he'd live forever. He was still driving. He did yoga. He was on the treadmill every day. And, of course, he played piano. In concert. At least once a month. And he taught at Bates College.

And earlier in the year, his last, he said that one of his performances was his absolutely best. Ever. This was a man who had played at Carnegie Hall. Three times. He had debuted a piece by Igor Stravinsky. And several of Aaron Copland's. A man who reached his peak at 99.

    It's haunting me. Shimmering, shining, ever changing. I can't even tell if it's really there. No step is the same: a varying hue, a different substance, more or less transparent than the others. And if I look closely, I swear I can see images flitting through the fibers, dancing their way up and up, full of life. Some horrible, some beautiful, but each one strikingly familiar.
    The staircase looks like it's made of dreams.
    It pulls me like an intricately woven rope, ever closer, through my entranced state. I've left my doorway without even remembering it; I'm standing before this spiraling entryway to another world. I look up, and the ceiling has vanished. I see only stairs that seems to go on forever. I've never believed in heaven, but now… I'm not so sure.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl named Pippa who thought that life needed some interesting bits. At least her life. Lots of lives are quite interesting, as you and I should know. #Narrative