WHAT COMES NEXT?

I stared out the window at the dark sky my eyes landing on a dim light in the distance. My heart beat hard against my chest. I felt time slipping away as if the number of breaths allotted me would soon come to an end. A shiver ran down my spine. The anxiety I feared so much grabbed on more tightly than usual. Tears rolled down my cheeks as the light in the distance faded.

I closed my eyes and breathed slowly knowing I had moved through life too fast — chasing dreams, searching for purpose — consumed with what time I had left rather the beauty of the moments it provided. At seventy- three years old I felt the pang of grief more acutely than ever before.

Finally, I opened my eyes and saw the sun rising feeling its warmth calming my soul. Suddenly a memory took form and an image of a woman sitting at an outdoor café appeared. People were strolling around her, but she was not focusing on them.

The woman was wearing a hat with a feather, a red dress. A long necklace hung from her neck. There was a book on the table — a glass of wine sitting beside it. I whiffed the crispy air — heard the subtle sounds of music and conversation vibrating around her. I strained to see the title of the book upon which the woman looked but the page seemed to be blank as if waiting to be filled.

I was sure the café was in Paris.

I had always wanted to go to Paris, but excuses stopped me — not enough time, enough money or was it a reason I had not considered? Maybe it was fear that my expectations would not live up to reality. Maybe the rain I thought would feel different in Paris really would not. Maybe filling the blank pages of a book was no different than filling the blank pages of a life.

All that day I felt different — surreal as if something were about to happen — something profound. When I looked at the clock it was moving forward, taking me with it.

Then it just stopped.

I was in Paris at the same cafe as the woman in the picture. I was dressed exactly like her looking down at a book. The pages were no longer blank. I looked at the title. The writer’s name. Annabel Hurst Moore, the pen name I had chosen years before when my book was just an idea. It was the ending I had struggled with — always the ending. Without it the book would be nothing but a string of words. How wrong I was for I had the power to change them. To change the ending. As long as I had not exceeded my allotted number of breathes there would always be a what comes next.

The rain began to fall. It did feel different in Paris.

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