sliding doors

Sometimes I see clearly through the window
into the other life.

I see a fatter version of me, married to Cam. Thirty-six years old, with one kid who cries when I try to teach him mathematics.
His name is always Pedro, even though Cam and I are white.

The other me never sold out for God, in the parallel life. She quit trying. And maybe moved to West Valley.

It was really that Cam was little by little unfaithful to me, with winks and smiles to other women. To using his romance language on them.
We would get quieter, everyday to each other, and things would fall apart. I would want a vacation and  a new car, and he would want romance out of me. He would find out I was gloomy, after our vows, and would get angry when I never cleaned out the dryer lint-trap.

And this is where I am so blessed, is that the life I am living belongs to God, and that I have to check with God, before decisions like marrying Cam.

The parallel me, in other universes and predestinations...
she tries to figure out where things went wrong in her marriage, and parenthood, and career when the real me just finds new things to smile about, and realizes that all the moments can be turned into worship.
Even in painful sacrifice and flashbacks.
The me that got picked for this life seriously takes it for granted most days.