We mounted the mud covered machine and took off through the woods over well worn terrain that whispered tales of the mischief of children, the adventures of men pretending to be boys, the expeditions of great hunters, and the pensive wanderings of soulful hearts.
Light and shadow danced through the trees. Our heart beats matched the unsuspecting rhythm of the trail. The air was fresh and clean. It smelled of life, reminding me to breathe.
We rounded corners with surprises at each bend and made our way to the top where light exploded in fields of yellow and green, spattered with purple and orange and white. To say the sky was blue could redefine the word itself. White clouds floated as effortlessly as ships on a tranquil sea.
We stopped to breathe it all in. And for the first time, I felt the nearness of my son, as if the distance is not as great as the pain of the world makes it seem. I spoke his name, and I smiled at the sky instead of shaking my fist.
Life on that mountain painted a picture of peace and love and hope. Beauty spoke. She whispered words of love.
And I was listening.