Someone once said, you are never too old to dream a new dream, and I believe them, but just not for me. Not now, anyway. It’s not like I’m eighty or anything. But it’s not age that’s the problem. And if I said I had a wonderful husband and four wonderful children and they were the problem, I think I’d sound pretty ungrateful. I’m not. But I can’t dream a new dream when I’m responsible for fanning the flame for four little dreamers and one dreamer who stole my heart fifteen years ago. Even if my heart has wrinkled a bit.

Standing here in the pouring rain with sopping feet and what feels like a rucksack full of bricks, I feel pretty ridiculous, but ever since I locked eyes with that painting, I haven’t been able to take a step further. I want it. In my home. I want my name on it. Joules Powers. I want to dream again. But as the rain spits on my umbrella, I feel like the world is spitting on me. I might not be too old, but I’m definitely too busy. I can barely keep up with my week, let alone shoehorn my dream into it.

The woman inside the gallery smiles at me, a sort of why-don’t-you-come-in smile. My heart beats fast, and butterflies fill my stomach. I’m not sure why I feel nervous. The rain pops harder, and I slide my finger under the straps of my rucksack, trying to lift the weight off my shoulders. I smile back at her. Not today. But who knows, maybe I’ll be back here this time next year, and maybe I will step inside. I don’t know how old I’ll be when I do, but as I recall, someone once said, you are never too old to dream a new dream. One day, I might believe that it is for me.