I was planning on writing the next installment in “Leap of Faith” today, but a disturbing nightmare has me writing of it instead.
My son and I were sitting by a campfire and I was explaining to him that I only had a few days to live.
I told him that I was going to hang out with Brent for awhile and then get to work on building us a house on the other side. I promised it would be big enough for his wife and kids and their spouses and kids too.
I made him promise to take care of his mother, to look after her until she came to join me.
More importantly, I told him what a brilliant writer he was and how proud I was of him.
It was strange because he looked the same as now, but older… he had mutton chops and a mustache and hair well past his shoulders. He was wearing a sherpa-lined corduroy jacket and a Harry Potter scarf.
He never spoke, just sort of sat there wringing his hands, then a shooting star passed overhead, streaking across the sky like a great white scar.
Then we walked together, across our backyard, toward a small boat with a dragon prow. It was sitting on top of the stump of our old willow, surrounded by kindling and lit torches.
I reached inside the boat and took out a book and handed it to him.When he opened it to look inside there was a flash of light and I woke up.
Needless to say, I have been, to be quite honest, a total wreck all morning.