The road along which I travel is beautiful. A blue sky is my roof and rich red soil my carpet. And yet, I sense somebody follows me in my dream. They trail behind me, at times picking up speed. On other occasions, lagging.
But always, their presence jars my psyche.
My consciousness rattles with the knowledge I am pursued. Looking back, I see no one; nothing shows itself or accidentally allows a glimpse of the boot, jacket, or hat sliding behind a rock or bolder.
I carry on, enjoying birdsong and sunshine, viewing the emerald fern fronds uncurling before my eyes and delicate blue-winged insects sipping nectar from tall golden blooms.
The one behind me, though, gains ground; I know it.
Soon, whoever lurks in the past will come to my full attention, breaking me from this moment into a time long ago.
Should I resist? Flee? Avoid meeting this now vague, but soon to be clear memory-ghost?
Or, is it best to sit, to wait and see what, or who emerges?
With a single sudden turn, I hear my voice call out to the past “who are you? What do you want with me?”
About me flowers swoon, bending in the breeze, and peace beckons from a faraway place, somewhere I’m destined to go.
Nobody answers my call, though I sense their presence still, and scour every tree, dream, hedge, and furrow for a sign they aren’t a passing fancy, a creative muse out of hand and on the loose.
A bushel of fine-leaved branches shakes, stealing my consideration. Is this entity a child, someone who wants to play?
I ponder the concept. Maybe the figment of my imagination from the past, a memory-slip not yet evaporated, needs something from me.
“It’s safe to come out.” I offer soothing words, now less afraid and ready to be kind to the potential memory-child.
And with slow gestures, one tiny hand clasping the top of a fern, another pushing aside a magnificent daisy, she stands before me; a girl, slightly higher than the surrounding crimson poppies.