I used to know the difference between jealousy and envy, but I’ve lost track of which one is less painful.  The one that doesn’t eat you up.  The one you wouldn’t wish on anyone.

In an alternate universe, I got married to Neil wearing a purple dress.  Me, not him.

It was catered by my Nana, but she also had the best time.  My Grandma was there, too.  And she remembered everything.  In one photo, I was flanked by them, not unlike when we all went to Disney World.

The cake was my Grandpa’s apple pie.  My Poppy handed out cigars.

There’s another picture.  Neil and my Dad and my brother who looks like me.  Because a girl can dream.

‘Can you handle Mom and Dad, please?’

‘Naw, dude.  It’s your turn.’

‘I’ll flip you for it.’

In an alternate universe, teleporters exist.  Distance is nothing.  I’ll be there in five minutes.

We’d live by the water with an actual beach attached.  We’d have bonfires and collect beach glass.  We’d go to the movies and see three in one night.

Wine wouldn’t give me heartburn.  But I’d still like beer better.

Bookstores would have several floors.  And shopping carts.

We’d have neighbours we’ve known for years.  And socially-conscious jobs that we loved.  Because just not hating them is not enough.

I’d still wear glasses.  Because I like them.  And I still can’t imagine voluntarily poking myself in the eye.  The heart, maybe.  But not the eye.

I’d still be on wheels, but the world would be ramped.  And people wouldn’t be assholes.

Maybe I’d be a lawyer.  Maybe the world wouldn’t need them.

Everyone would appreciate country music. The Mets would win the World Series every year.

Pay it forward and give it back.

And who doesn’t like coffee?

I’d write my words, and go outside.  Everything would be open.

‘How my doing?’

‘You’re fine.  Keep going.’


This will always work.  In any Universe.

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