If I close my eyes, I’m in the woods. I can see the tall, silent trees, and the sunlight that winks through the green-leaf canopy. I can smell the fresh, damp earth. I can hear the birds chirruping above. I can feel the peace.
Beeches and elms, slender silver birch and pine - the dryads and the ancient Ents whisper their secrets to each other upon the breeze. I stretch out a hand to to touch the cracked bark and the soft, dry moss that clothes their twisting arms.
Underfoot, my boots crunch cones and twigs, and settle on the springy soil. Insects scurry on rocks and roots, and the bracken rustles with life.
A wood pigeon hoots, calling happily through the trees, and somewhere distant, another answers. Above, below; below, above. The woods are alive. Perhaps more alive than I am.
I open my eyes. A lampshade. The ceiling. The electric glow of my bedside light, the soft sound of late night music, muffled through the walls. Sadness returns as I remember that wood. Perhaps it only exists in my dreams. Perhaps it’s more than that. Perhaps one day I will get to stay, and all those I love will be there, calling each other through the trees as we meet, laughing at the wonder, the absurdity, the long-forgotten pain of all we endured in that other place.
I blink away a tear. Then I close my eyes once again, hoping for just one glimpse through the trees, one voice, just one voice of many, calling me up and in to the greater and the deeper. The birds sing. The wind rustles the leaves. The ceiling fades to sky and the glorious sun beams from the bedside lamp as the song begins and the world ends.
If I close my eyes, I’m in the woods. And one day, I’ll get to stay.
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