Worthwhile

"What've you done with our life?" my child-self asks, perturbed. "Why aren't we an archaeologist? Why aren't we winning awards for that book we wrote at sixteen? Why aren't we standing around Stonehenge or on the moon? What've you done with my life?"

I cradle my half-drunk coffee, observe the stuffed animal litter, open doors left wide in their frivolous play, the sound of my husband's voice tease-chatting with them. Someone laughs. The dog barks. I glance at the over-edited novel before me, awaiting a meaning though I'm pleased with the setting.

"Oh," I say, "I'm still working on it."