The Garden House

It was never too late.

Miranda set her teacup down with the sudden realization that she hadn’t been true to her own convictions. And the thing she had been most wrong about was the insidious, slow-creeping belief that the best years were behind her.

She sat up straight. That’s not the way it was going to be. Time had not buried her old self. It was still there, more alive than ever. The summer had served to galvanize her desires and focus her vision.

She would get back in touch with that earlier, excited, hopeful part of herself – the one that painted medieval landscapes, and threw clay, and dressed in Bohemian skirts. She would merge that old self with the way she was now – with her gardening, and experimental cooking, and magical nights with Ben.

Miranda jumped up and decided to make it happen. Now. Today. And every day.

In one of those moments of euphoria that sometimes overtook her, she flashed on a vision of how this night of today would be.