I read the article by Monica Dux in the Life Style section of Saturday's Age, Mother Load, last Saturday and was struck with the possibility that I have this other story in me, regarding becoming a single parent by choice.
The same day, as I drank a coffee on my way to the National Gallery, I was enchanted to find myself engaged in a conversation with a little boy whose mother was waiting for her coffee, and holding the handles of a pusher with a baby in it. We discussed the butterfly stickers on the front window of the tram parked so inconsequentially on the Arts Centre's apron, and where the tram's wheels had gone. His mother, coffee in hand, beamed at me, the Woman Who Would Be A Grandmother, and explained that her son "was so friendly with everyone". Nevertheless, I felt privileged, to have been so easily included in his world of exploration.
And those early days with my own son were so vividly present for me.
I probably do have more than one story to tell before I die. Which, at the time of writing this, does not appear nigh, My own doctor diagnosed a muscle/tendon/cartilage stressed by lifting luggage, and the pain has disappeared faster than is predictable.