When my brother showed up, he was genuinely surprised. He reached across the table to embrace my husband, who promptly knocked over the drink I'd just received. Being a mom, I instinctively grabbed for it, but it shattered in my hand. Luckily, it didn't pierce the skin.
After we cleaned up and ordered dinner, I sat back to listen to my brother and his friends reminisce about the old music scene in Toronto. They talked about who had the best sound mixing boards, who was with what band these days, and the clubs they played in. That night, I found out my brother actually performed at El Mocambo, an iconic tavern on Spadina.
He worked as a janitor for the building. Once, late at night, he stood in the middle of the empty stage where the Rolling Stones and Elvis Costello performed, and he visualized himself playing guitar there. A few years later, he did.
At 50, he plays a mean guitar, keyboards, bass and mandolin with the best of them. He teaches music for a living, but I believe someday he'll realize his dream of making a living playing music.
I feel the same way about writing. With every rejection, with every turn of phrase, with every nice email from a happy reader, I know I'm going to make it. Well, most of the time. Well... sometimes.
I hope my children will realize their dreams at an earlier age, but if they don't, it's no big deal. Sometimes the journey is as exciting as the destination.
I can still dream, can't I?
Here's the gift I made for little Bro, suitable for a Toronto boy living in Buffalo