If only

• 2 • 403

At 84 and sitting here alone in my chair, in this quiet little room at the nursing home, I often find myself drifting into a world of “what might have been.” It’s a funny thing, really, how the mind wanders when the body stays put. I play a little game with myself, imagining all the lives I could have lived—if only things had been different, or if I’d had just a touch more ambition. Or talent, for that matter.

Take the piano, for instance. In another life, I might have been a classical pianist, the sort who makes people weep with joy as my fingers glide effortlessly over the keys. I can picture myself on stage, bathed in soft light, performing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata with such emotion that the audience hangs on every note. Of course, in reality, I can barely manage Chopsticks without hitting a wrong note. But in this fantasy, I’m the toast of the classical music world.

Or what about a Nobel Prize winner? I could have been standing up there in Stockholm, graciously accepting my medal for some groundbreaking discovery—something profound in the field of quantum physics, perhaps. Never mind that I can barely grasp basic arithmetic these days. I’d have delivered an eloquent speech, full of wisdom, as people nodded sagely and whispered about how brilliant I was.

And then there’s the notion of being President—of where, I’m not entirely sure, but I’d have figured it out. I’d give grand speeches, wave at crowds of adoring fans, and make important decisions. I might have even declared Tuesdays as “Pyjama Day” for the whole country. That would have been a hit. Though I suspect I’d have forgotten everyone’s name and mixed up all the important dates.

Hollywood stardom crossed my mind as well. I’d be strutting down the red carpet, sunglasses on, signing autographs for fans who couldn’t get enough of me. I’d have made the tabloids, not for scandals, but for my impeccable taste in clothes and my daring new film roles. The truth is, I’d probably trip over my own feet or be caught sneaking an extra dessert at the after-party buffet.

Oh, and the Olympics! Imagine me as a champion, sprinting down the track or swimming like a fish. I’d be on cereal boxes, with kids looking up to me as their hero. Never mind that these days, my joints creak just getting out of bed.