Sometimes I fool myself, thinking the days of infertility are long behind me. But then I am reminded that an open book really never closes until you take action to close the cover.

I never had an end to my book. No epilogue.

Just blank pages.

For the last few years I’ve been wondering what will be written. How it will end.  Hoping the words magically appear. I have grown tired and weary of staring at this book.

Unfinished.

Or is it?

I wrote chapters that I’ve ripped up in my head. Hundreds of times. I’ve started new chapters, decided that they just weren’t quite right. I’ve written pages that I know others would enjoy reading, but decided they were not wholly representative of me.

I am ever-changing, and therefore my book is as well. I might as well switch to pencil from pen, or find a font in my computer with disappearing virtual ink.

I just can’t shake the feeling that the conclusion, the perfect chapter, isn’t going to appear.  It will unfold, but not on the timeline I want it to.

And not with the ending I envisioned.

Another day, maybe tomorrow?

Next week?

Next year?

Or maybe, years ahead I will look back and find the path was necessary and clear… and, hopefully, I will be content in knowing that.

This will be the longest book ever written.