Before the wind picked up and moved on she thought she heard a voice, a new one remembering how to listen and how to speak. She found the boy on a blanket under a tree but he was not speaking to her. Not yet. He was speaking to the tree. Silly boy.
“Run with me until our thoughts rhyme,” the wind once said to me, I’m sure of it, in another time. I put my head in the wind and listened and she reminded me I could see. I told her I often dream and I once dreamt of another world, one where I am what I was meant to be. “I know,” she said, “I was there. Life is but a dream.”