Are we immune to regret ?

Here she is. She missed her life. Every opportunity that presented itself, every possibility of overcoming her status quo. Each time it looked so close, each time it slipped between her fingers. How absurd. She could've have it all. She's sweeping the floors now. Too much hesitation maybe. Too much questions and confusion. Lost, alone.

Yet here she is. Smiling. It feels as if she's made the right decisions. All the way, all along. The possibilities are ever present but that's all they'll ever be. What she is is what she has. This cleaning water she can smell, this swiping cane she can feel, this floor she can see : dirty then clean. This is the reality she transforms. It is hers. The parallel universes of endless possibilities can sing their tempting syren songs but their notes cross her ears only to rebound on her heart's barriers.

Her cleaning cane is a magic cane. It is the stick with which she stirs the soup of her reality, the nourishing mixture that floods her soul. She is the cleaning act she carries out, the moment she controls, the outcome she produces. She is the floor and her actress self or her lawyer self or her senator self are heavy ghosts that she's learned to ignore.

No more. No more will the 'could have been' be a benchmark for the ' what is'. Her hands have aged faster than the rest of her body but her face still has that glow. She's smiling. Still.