Closing your eyes, you take in all the scents and sounds of your favorite spot in the world. It’s so peaceful here.
You hear crickets chirping. The sun is beginning to set, but birds still sing in the trees. The air is sweet. You breathe in deeply, filling your lungs with the warm summer air. Bees quietly buzz as they fly by your face, but you’re neither frightened nor annoyed by this. You know they’re just on their way from flower to flower. The expression “busy as a bee” pops into your mind. You chuckle.
And how beautiful they are. The flowers, that is. The field behind you is filled with them. You’ve been coming here for a long time now, and every year there seem to be new colors in bloom. Some years the field is covered in brilliant blues and purples. Other years it’s an offering of breathtaking reds and yellows.
You reach out and feel the cool grass beneath your wrinkled hands. You can remember coming to this spot as a child; running through the flowers, climbing through the trees, enjoying picnics in their shade… such a long time ago.
So many others have shared this place with you since those days: lovers, then children, even grandchildren over the years. So many joy-filled days. So many memories.
“I’m ready” you say.
You open your eyes. Beside you, you see yourself. Your eyes are closed, and you are seated with your back against a large tree. A book has fallen from your hand. You lay in stilled silence; absolute peace. You gaze at yourself for another few moments, and then turn away.
Now in front of you, standing among the flowers, is a large man with pale skin. In his hand he carries a wooden walking stick. He watches you with kind, patient eyes.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes” you say. “I’m sure.”
You take his hand, and it’s warm, not at all cold as you had expected. The two of you start walking, slowly.
“Will I ever be able to come back? To see this place again?” you ask him.
“Every day” he replies.