the threads in her head

-daydreams

He tells me I'm 4 and then holds my hand, firmly.

I'm trying to understand whether he's a caretaker, a father figure, or a friend, a casual brother; or the pal who'll lounge in my sofa, comfortable in my house; or the buddy that will support me no matter what, encouraging me to go for my dreams; or the mate, you know, the type who went through the same ups and downs with you, because you all were in the same team or something, but I'm already following him with no protest as he leads me on.

He tells me about his world, he shares his scenery with me. We pass by ferns and flowers and he points out the jagged leaf, the drop of dew, the soft splash of colour by a flower. He stops at the puddles and fallen leafs and we stand and admire the circle of life, nature loops. It's a slow walk.

And I feel safe.

He repeats his stories, his love and hates, his life, his past, his aspirations, his little thoughts, but I don't get bored, just listening, fascinated by how his words act like a window into his soul. He smiles at me and I smile back and I can't help but think how beautifully his eye crinkles up, how genuine that lovely arc of joy is, how good-looking he is, and I hold out my hand for him to hold.

He takes it and give it a gentle squeeze before saying, "now you know why I said you're 4" and my heart is filled with wonder as he points out the sky, the shapes of clouds, the things hidden within them... the galaxy of stars. I'm enchanted by the wonders and mysteries revealed to me by his words, the spell that one is in when encountering the new.

He tells me that the stars I'm seeing are not really stars, but just the light given out by them a few thousand years ago, that what I'm looking at now is some thousand, perhaps million year old light that has only managed to reach earth now after travelling a long long distance, and that the star itself might not really be there anymore, proving that things might not be what they seem.

I pluck up my courage to look into his eyes, and ask, just as he pauses for breath, "are you what are then?" He looks back at me, an expression of delicate surprise on his face, "well, what do you think I am in the first place?" I realise I don't know the answer and stutter out, "a person?" and he laughs and fondles my hair as he says teasingly, "aye, or maybe a figure of your imagination eh?"

The shadow of a doubt flits through my mind for the briefest of moments, flying off before I could even grasp it and realise what it could mean, but already we are moving off for more sights of birds and creatures. He holds my hand securely and don't let me fall so I follow on, putting my foot where he tells me to.

I become comfortable and start talking too, and he accepts every single syllabus, going, "oh really?" and launching off into his stories at the right times. It was a delightful hour, as though time itself has paused and we could go on telling stories forever, but I got sleepy, and my reaction slowed. He notice of course, and suggest that both of us rest. In my sleepiness I am strangled enchanted with the thought, at the magic of together and agrees.

He stays up for a while more though, just to make sure I get to sleep, humming away in a soft low voice. My eyes finally close and the last thought that flits through my mind as the tune of the guitar faded away was the last lines of Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale': Fled is that music: -- Do I wake or sleep

But by then I was asleep and that thought, like so many others, vanished into the night.