I dreamed of mountains and lakes. This was normal. I have many such dreams and still do, but this one ended differently. As I stood on a grassy shore looking out across the water, two sets of numbers hung in the air as if floating on a breeze. The numbers remained until I heard the voice.
A strong male voice said, "Confluence," just once.
I woke up.
Dawn was just a breath away. The house was chilly. I was hesitant to crawl out of bed. My wife lay beside me, breathing deep and was not ready to wake-up. The house thermostat was set at 65 degrees. Outside, the winter cold frosted every window, looking for a way in. For now, the double-glazed windows and insulated walls kept Jack outside. Making small movements, turning to my left and rolling a bit, I pulled the covers down ever so slowly until my face was fully exposed. I blew a small breath out of my pursed lips, always expecting to see a mist, but none formed. In the dim shadows of light breaking from the east, I could see the small note pad. My sure hit song writer pen lay beside it.
Over the years, I took to naming such inanimate objects and they became good friends, that is until one would run out of ink. Then it was thrown into the basket without a single good-bye. You know the feeling.
A strong male voice said, "Confluence," just once.
I woke up.
Dawn was just a breath away. The house was chilly. I was hesitant to crawl out of bed. My wife lay beside me, breathing deep and was not ready to wake-up. The house thermostat was set at 65 degrees. Outside, the winter cold frosted every window, looking for a way in. For now, the double-glazed windows and insulated walls kept Jack outside. Making small movements, turning to my left and rolling a bit, I pulled the covers down ever so slowly until my face was fully exposed. I blew a small breath out of my pursed lips, always expecting to see a mist, but none formed. In the dim shadows of light breaking from the east, I could see the small note pad. My sure hit song writer pen lay beside it.
Over the years, I took to naming such inanimate objects and they became good friends, that is until one would run out of ink. Then it was thrown into the basket without a single good-bye. You know the feeling.