I shall never live to be a marvelous old woman
Or a cranky old woman
Or a respected old woman.
I shall not live to be an old woman.
I shall not live.
I have too much living to do in too little
I have too little time to do any living.
I regret the long wasted years,
The idle years, the years glued to work.
The days and years spent not achieving,
The days and years spent not reading and learning.
The music never played, the songs not sung
I happened upon this poem about four months after Sandra's death, when I opened one of her notebooks and saw it as the last entry. She had not published it, so it was -apparently- the poem she was working on at the end.