She never wasted time on irony. Except when she did.
Like when her health declined in middle age to the point she believed she would never be the same again. Being defeated by illness will do that to a person.
So there she was again using that word, as if she could ignore how ‘never’ seemed to bubble to the surface of her existence as ‘maybe’ time and time again. As if her declarations of ‘never’ could be etched in glossy granite, scarring deeper with each utterance. As if she knew the most about her life and could direct its path by casting a word out into the universe.
At least she might find solace in being wrong. Because irony never wasted time on her, either. It played her swiftly and with ruthless honesty.
Someday, she might accept that within the penumbra of ‘never,’ possibility can shine through.
Maybe never. But maybe.