Somewhere else

There's another universe, not too far removed from this one. Just a couple of degrees, really, in the grand scheme of things. Far enough that we cannot see it. Close enough that we can sometimes feel it.

In this other universe, there's another earth - and on this other earth, there's another me. She's not that far removed from the me who's typing these words - only a matter of degrees in the grand scheme of things.

We followed the same path, made the same decisions and moved in the same direction for the first nineteen years of our lives. Then, at some point (I'm not sure exactly where or when) she turned left when I turned right. From that moment on a series of small steps, minor choices and insignificant decisions lead our paths further away from each other until, six months later, she was in a different place to me both physically and metaphorically.

And so it happened that she said "hello" to someone I've never met, under circumstances in which in I probably would have said nothing. Some weeks after that she said "yes" when I would have found a reason to say "no". A few months later, she took a risk I would have been too afraid to take, and it paid off. It wasn't long after that she found a reason to change her surname (something I've never particularly wanted to do), and as the years passed she made several more decisions and changes to her lifestyle that I have never been interested in making.

And now, almost ten years later, as we both stare down the barrel of a certain birthday, we are in very different place, both physically and metaphorically.

She lives in a different city, is married and has three children. She's recently gone back to work as a teacher aide in a kindergarten, doing her bit to pay off the mortgage they owe on a house that's been feeling too small for a while now. They're thinking of selling up and moving out to the country - somewhere further south, like Victoria.

She has this dream, you see, of a big, sprawling farmhouse somewhere in the country. A place fit for a large family (maybe as many as six kids) - someplace where their grandkids can come every summer and run wild. She wants a place in a colder climate - maybe somewhere where it snows in winter. And she wants a place big enough for a small orchard with apple and cherry trees and a large vegetable garden.

She envisions days spent tending the farm and taking care of her family - a life that rolls with the seasons: pruning, sowing, tending, harvesting. Sewing clothes for her kids and grandkids, making quilts for friends and family, bringing in the harvest and making vinegar, jam and cider.

She'll be involved with the local community groups, getting together with the other women to make and create and grow and do. To organise and plan and help make the town a home - a community.

And between these things - these acts of living - she'll write novels and articles for magazines. Maybe she'll never be a great writer, but she might get some things published and she'll amuse herself in the meantime. After all, deep down she's always wanted to be a story teller.

I know these things about her because we aren't so far removed, really - only a couple of degrees in the grand scheme of things. Occasionally, when the stars align, our daydreams overlap. I see these things she wants for her future, and I can feel them pulling at me. Things I don't normally think I want. Things that don't lie in my path.

If I had spent the last ten years living her life instead of mine, perhaps I could look forward to this future she dreams of. But I didn't, and I don't have the groundwork she has laid for herself. Maybe some of these things will fall into my reach, but many of them never will.

And, to be honest, if you asked me - me - what I want for my future, I couldn't really say this future she dreams of is the future I would choose. Especially if I was being practical and thinking about the steps that are logically available for me to take.

And yet, every now and then, I notice I have brought something into my life that really belongs to her. A blouse, a chair, a set of curtains. Every now and then, I notice that I've stopped looking at the apartments which would suit the life I'm likely to have, and I've started looking at the houses she would want for her family.

And in the back of my mind I realise: we are not so far removed from each other after all.

Only a matter of degrees, really.

In the grand scheme of things.