The grass was blue, deep indigo blue, shimmering blue, beautiful blue, a breathing blue, a blue that rose and rolled down the hills like waves in an ocean far away, crashing into tree trunks, flowing underneathe my bare feet. The tips of the grass were golden white like foam, and they sparkled in the orange light of the sunset. The sun was warm on my shoulders, the air fresh. A gentle breeze flowed down the valley. My old treehouse stood in the middle of the vast field of blue; beside it lay a bright orange canoe.
I walked towards it. A man was standing in it, his back turned to me: tall, unruly red hair, strong. He had his arms crossed and was staring into the sky at things I could not see. When I came close, he spoke without looking at me. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
I wasn't sure what he meant, but looking around, everything I saw was beautiful. "It is," I replied.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go." He turned around. It was my father. He was young again, perhaps 25. I got into the canoe, standing awkwardly. The canoe was handbuilt, intricate with details. As I looked, the grain of the wood painted stories of dreams and aches, of ambition and contentment. My father stood at the bow of the canoe, raising his arms slowly to the sky.
With a grace I had not known, and to my surprise, the canoe began to rise in the sky, faster and faster, faster still. My heart soared as the air rushed past my face. I looked over the side to see the earth, a quiet ball of blue, slip below the clouds. "Where are we?" I asked.
"Alive," my father said.
The clouds covered us, in all different shades of white. Magnificent, they brushed past my arms and legs, dusting me with twinkling drops all over. As we flew threw the clouds, they rocked the canoe jokingly. I laughed. I brushed the drops off of my arms and they shot off of me into the sky like shooting stars.
We flew on, dipping through the cloud line now and then, twisting our way through treetops, tossing pebbles in lakes, racing a V of birds. It was exciting; my heart raced with joy and adrenaline. My father stood and watched everything from the bow, pointing at this and that occasionally. Sometimes, when I looked beside me, my mom would be there, peering down at the earth, laughing with us. Other times Bon would be, or my sister from Paraguay. We flew forever. It seemed like forever, and the sun never sat below the horizon.
I remember thinking, "This is a dream. I know it is. But this is Heaven, surely, if only here in a dream, for a moment. I know it's going to be over, but I'm ok with it. I'm ok with it."
I walked towards it. A man was standing in it, his back turned to me: tall, unruly red hair, strong. He had his arms crossed and was staring into the sky at things I could not see. When I came close, he spoke without looking at me. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
I wasn't sure what he meant, but looking around, everything I saw was beautiful. "It is," I replied.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go." He turned around. It was my father. He was young again, perhaps 25. I got into the canoe, standing awkwardly. The canoe was handbuilt, intricate with details. As I looked, the grain of the wood painted stories of dreams and aches, of ambition and contentment. My father stood at the bow of the canoe, raising his arms slowly to the sky.
With a grace I had not known, and to my surprise, the canoe began to rise in the sky, faster and faster, faster still. My heart soared as the air rushed past my face. I looked over the side to see the earth, a quiet ball of blue, slip below the clouds. "Where are we?" I asked.
"Alive," my father said.
The clouds covered us, in all different shades of white. Magnificent, they brushed past my arms and legs, dusting me with twinkling drops all over. As we flew threw the clouds, they rocked the canoe jokingly. I laughed. I brushed the drops off of my arms and they shot off of me into the sky like shooting stars.
We flew on, dipping through the cloud line now and then, twisting our way through treetops, tossing pebbles in lakes, racing a V of birds. It was exciting; my heart raced with joy and adrenaline. My father stood and watched everything from the bow, pointing at this and that occasionally. Sometimes, when I looked beside me, my mom would be there, peering down at the earth, laughing with us. Other times Bon would be, or my sister from Paraguay. We flew forever. It seemed like forever, and the sun never sat below the horizon.
I remember thinking, "This is a dream. I know it is. But this is Heaven, surely, if only here in a dream, for a moment. I know it's going to be over, but I'm ok with it. I'm ok with it."
*photo courtesy of http://www.cbc.ca/
(That is, of course, read the comics)
