This was something that popped into my head the other night driving home.   I’m unsure of its significance, but I chalk it up to recently feeling very connected to my wife and son and our unit as a family, and how insanely important it is for us to be together and connected.    The actual vision in my head was more real than I can put into words, but here is a slight glimpse.

I can see myself trudging up the relatively steep hillock covered in long, flowing green grasses, waving fiercely in the stiff wind blowing from beyond the rise.   Burdened, thick clouds hang close to the ground, their countenance not one of rain but merely a shrouding of the land in the dimly-highlighted gray of anticipation.   There is nothing else around this place except the grass-covered hills; if there is, my vision doesn’t lead me to see it.   The bottom is hidden beyond the threshold of sight.

The vision alternatively shifts between a bird’s-eye view of the situation and a personal detail; I am in a constant flux between the closeness of my warm breath and the soft ssssshhh of the grass and a perspective floating above, watching the play unfold.    I am dressed unusually — all in white; long, loose pants, a long, flowing seamless shirt, barefoot.   I can feel the dual nature of the grass, both soft and cool underfoot and yet harsh and sharp on the edges as it slides along the top and sides of my feet.

The wind blasts into my face, racing down the slope and nearly bowling me over; my struggle is prolific as I take cautioned breaths of an air tinged with the light smell of salt and water, catching a few molecules before they race behind me to some unknown destination.   I can barely see the breeze is so strong, but by squinting I can look around as I climb.

And I see her.

She is doing likewise; trudging slowly up the hill, leaning forward into the gale, her long flowing locks trailing behind her.    She is also all in white; a long, flowing dress of simple mediumweight cotton dances in the eddies behind her and presses against her barefoot legs as she moves, the bodice scooped and the sleeves long, yet simple; loose and comfortable.     A plain silver comb adorns her hair.

We are almost at the top now, maybe a dozen feet from the pinnacle and perhaps twenty apart but closing, as our trajectories are angled towards each other, when a brilliant light bursts on the peak for just a moment and then fades, and in its place stands a little boy.

He is perhaps two, maybe three years old, but I cannot see his face as he is turned away from us.    Brown, curly hair adorns his round head, punctuated by soft, small ears.    As we all are, he is in white;  a simple shirt, white cotton pants, his small bare feet poking out from the bottom as he stands there in the waving grasses, arms at his sides.

She and I reach the peak, stepping our last and coming to rest on either side of the boy, facing outwards as he is.   I feel a small warmth in my hand and I look down to see his short fingers entwining in mine; he has grasped each of our hands with his.    I look up and stare into the clear blue eyes of my son and he cracks the most innocent and brilliant of smiles.    At that very instant, a new energy like a slow, warm bolt of lightening runs between us and fills me from head to toe.

I look further upwards into the shining eyes and face of my wife who looks at me for an instant, then back down at our prodigy who is sharing his gaze between us.  I know she can feel the connection swelling between us, a bond stronger than mere touch, simple recognition; it is the shared connection of our family, our everlasting association with each other as parent, child, spouse.   I can feel him and her both and I know they feel me.

Our faces turn forward towards a rising sun that is breaking through the clouds, and we squeeze hands, pulsing this energy between us, ready to face whatever meets us, together.

We take a step forward towards the sun, down the hill, and forward into life.