Mais Tarde < Windows >

Elias was a man of many notebooks. One for the house he’d build "mais tarde," one for the stories he’d write "mais tarde," and one for the trips he’d take when the time was right. To Elias, "later" wasn't a delay; it was a vast, shimmering horizon where all his best versions lived.

Elias looked at the empty jar. "Ma'am, this is just glass. It’s worth nothing." Mais tarde

He didn't wait to build a house; he fixed the broken porch step. He didn't wait to write a book; he wrote a letter to an old friend. He realized that "mais tarde" is a place where dreams go to grow old and tired, but "agora" (now) is where they live. Elias was a man of many notebooks

Clara smiled sadly. "This is a Jar of Laters. My husband filled it for forty years. Every time he wanted to tell me he loved me but was too busy, he’d whisper it into the jar to save for 'mais tarde.' Every time he wanted to see the ocean or learn the piano, he’d put a note in here for 'later.'" Elias looked at the empty jar