wishing and hoping

"They tell you where to go. They tell you who to be." The lines from that song echo through my mind. I rush down the sidewalk on my way to my Tahoe and I see a woman sitting outside the coffee shop, with her feet up reading a book. I stumbled a bit as a wave of envy washed over me. In that very same moment I was mentally going down my check list. What time is it? Who wants something from me next? Where do I have to be 10 minutes ago? 5 minutes from now? There is almost always a sense of being behind, like I am treading water with my nose barely above the surface and the next wave will wash the last remnant of strength from my trembling limbs.
I have spent my whole life waiting. Waiting to grow up, waiting for someone to accept my weaknesses and search until they found my strengths. Waited for my children to be born, waited for them to grow up. I’ve waited in dark parking lots till all hours so that someone had a ride home. I’ve sat in cold sterile hospital waiting rooms filled with dread and hope. I’ve waited for the "terrible twos" and the "awful adolescent years" to creep past.
The hopes, dreams and secret desires are buried somewhere. It’s just easier that way. A layer of dust seems to keep them in check. On the rare occasion that I have dared bring them out, to wipe away the neglect that hides them from the world, the very instant the lid is raised hope springs out and tries to take root right there in front of me. The dreams slowly, cautiously creep out and tentatively test their wings. The secret desires usually stay safely tucked away in the familiar confines of their hiding place but have been known to surreptitiously peek over the edge just to let me know they are still there. 
Hope can be a dangerous thing. It makes you believe if only for a brief fleeting moment. Even if you only dip a toe into the water your foot is still going to be wet. I do miss it. Once, a long time ago, it had free rein. Hope sprang up in the strangest places, like Kudzu allowed to go unchecked. The dreams would follow me, gently prodding reminding me of what might be possible. Hopes and dreams travel together. The secret desire is solitary and almost invisible. But then in a moment of quiet stillness I feel it brush ever so gently across my heart and mind, like someone reverently turning the pages of an ancient book.
I don’t know if they ever really die. I feel quite certain that it would be easier. Disappointment and resignation seem all too willing to move in and rearrange the furniture. The lone chair is now facing a wall instead of the window. The lamp is across the room, casting no light, only shadows.
I hope they don’t die. I suppose that is all the proof that is required. Hope is nothing if not persistent. Now if only hope and dreams could convince those secret desires to make more frequent appearances. In the meantime I will do what I seem to do best. I will just wait.