I think I have told a few people here and there about this.

It’s not that I am afraid I will grow old alone. It is more of, I have already accepted that fact if it happens.

And if it will, I’d like to be a grandmother whose life has been lived.

Silver gray hair flowing or tucked. Wrinkles from all the laughters and tears I’ve shed. Scars that prove that for once, I have existed and lived a life worth living.

By then, I’d probably be concentrating on gardening to accompany and get me through the lonely days.

I see myself calm, and in the modest of dresses.

I’d probably even have vintage appliances that scream classic – kettles, typewriters, cassette tapes… I’m still debating if a grand piano and a grandfather’s clock would suit my taste – maybe when they’re painted white or pastel? Perhaps.

Surely, some wind chimes on my doors that will serve as the melody of the house I will be in.

My kitchen will be like warm sunshine in the mornings. You know, those that have fresh flowers in the center and some dried flowers in the corner altogether? It will have an ambiance of that at your grandmother’s back when you were a kid.

I’d like to remain poised. The words I’d utter would have none but full grace.

I wish by then I can have the prettiest smile. One that when you see, just brightens up your whole day.

I’d be baking cookies for my future grandkids, if any. And will be cooking healthy food at its finest.

I want to grow old. I’d like to witness a lot of things – children getting married and having a family, seeing the world with my very own eyes, reading all the handwritten letters I received in my younger years over and over, and just having pure joy in my heart, nevertheless.

I think, if I try hard, I will reach this state of peace.

I can’t wait to grow old gracefully and become a gorgeous gray-haired grandmother who gardens.