Harlem by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Over the past year and a half, some of my dreams have been lost forever (the dream of raising Sacha, of a long and happy marriage with my ex-husband, of acting as a surrogate, of being an ideal resident). Others have been called into question (I had always imagined working in Peru, perhaps with a home-base in the rural US, accompanied by my willing companions… now that those companions are out of the picture, where do I see myself?).

Although it’s difficult to acknowledge, because it feels like a betrayal to Sacha, I know that some of my dreams are still intact and have simply been deferred. The dreams of a strong partnership, a loving family, living children. I’m not ready to embrace those dreams yet, but I am working on keeping them alive in the back of my mind while fostering some hope for the future.

Those dreams have been deferred, but not indefinitely. I can’t ignore them forever, but they won’t begin to rot anytime soon.