Past and Future lives

Once upon a time, whilst I was marooned in L.A. trying to live the Hollywood Dream, I spied a young boy sitting on a bench who looked exactly like the child I'd have had, if I had bothered to have any kids. From my grungy seat on a passing city bus, I quickly took in these specifics: he had black curly hair, yellowish-brown skin tone, large dark eyes. His full lips parted in a smile to reveal two bucked front teeth. Even though my bus took less than 30 seconds to pass him, I had the distinct feeling that he looked right at me.

The image of that little boy (whom I've dubbed "Ivan") haunted me for twenty years. His presence in my memory is the ready response to my question of whether or not I should have had kids. If I had had a boy, somehow I know he would have looked like Ivan. Two weeks ago, when I met for the first time my six year old half-sister, I encountered the corresponding feminine answer. If I'd had a girl, I imagine she'd have looked very much like Georgia.

Georgia, a late-in-life child begotten by my biological father, shares my oval face, my gap-toothed smile, my nose and chin. Her brown eyes are her mothers as is her dark wavy hair and light skin tone. However, like Ivan, I get a spooky feeling when I look at her, as if life is winking at me, letting me know that even in the wake of my willful non-procreation, biological determinism--the continuance of my paternal blood line--will rule the day.

When 42-year-old me met my almost 7-year-old sister I was pretty bowled over...but I was still somewhat readied for the encounter since I had seen pictures of her. I was ill prepared however for the shock of seeing my father...suprisingly, not because we have had so little contact over the last 25 years...but because of who he has aged into. I've watched my mother age gracefully and admired her way of advancing into her later years, clear-eyed and playful...but we don't closely resemble each other. My father on the other hand, had the stronger gene pool and there's no mistaking that I am his progeny right down to the scowls we both unconsciously sport. To see him at 70, is to see myself, is to see my paternal grandmother all commixed into one.

His spirit is also curiously familiar to me. Even at 70, he's a broody individual caught deep in the throes of life's passions...overfull of wishes and dreams he's not yet reached. From my vantage point, it would be rather easy for me to morph into such a person thirty years hence, to be someone who wears unrequited dreams on her sleeve. I will have to work very hard to avoid being as deeply wistful as I perceived him to be. The whole experience was, at the very least, a stark reminder of where I came from and where I might be going.

That's the beauty of free will. I can still change...if I want to.

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