Blue skies overhead with sun that warms my hair while the wind tosses it wildly about my face. All I can smell is the fresh pungent fragrance of newly mowed grass mixed with baking green leaves from the maples that straddle the path I am walking. To the left of me a swelling stream rushes over rocks where it used to only babble, creating tiny rapids that churn the river bed turning the water a murky brown-red. As I lose myself to the rhythm of the crunching from my feet snapping the twigs, gravel and sand on the path, I can hear the cicada singing for a mate as the temperature continues to climb.
Now I slip down the clay, crumbling bank toward the edge of the stream so that I can dip my feet in and cool my skin in the tepid water. The sun splits into a million tiny replicas that bounce and reflect off the waves of the stream, so bright I shield my eyes. I look up just in time to see two dragonflies weave in and around one another, each out pacing the other, dipping and diving until they zip from my sight. As I peer through the water, down at my toes, I see that a dozen minnows have surrounded my feet, possibly to inspect this foreign intrusion. I wiggle my toes to see them scatter in every direction as the mossy stream bottom whirls and circles in particles that cloud my feet from view.
I experience such clarity of mind as I stride deeper into the forest and further from the drone of the city. It is in these moments, with nature, when I feel closest to life and what alive means. Moments when I am also the most in tune with my heart and it's grief. Perhaps it should not even be called grief. It is in these quiet minutes, that I feel the swell of my heart as I fill with such tremendous love for Flynn; for his tiny moment that weighed on our lives forevermore. It seems natural to drift to thoughts of him. A burdened sense of peace, not freedom, but free of torment. This is the place that wishes intertwine with daydreams. Where I see his feet moving through the grass and his wavy head of hair curling in rebellion with the breeze. I picture him laughing and running and I long to imagine him with his brothers, filling in the whole that aches on harder days. Lost in this daydream I can hear him call after me, "Momma" in the singsong voice of a child pleading for me to witness his latest feat of speed or strength or courage. I feel the muscles in my chest begin to engage with a dull, deep thumping and I know that it is time to rouse myself to the present so that I may stay with the lightheartedness of my dream. I hear the crunching of the path beneath my feet and I continue on.