Somewhere Out There

A man. He always stands atop of a hill, late at night when all of the world has laid down to sleep. He never stays very long, especially on nights when he is particularly busy with his work.

Tonight, however, he is free of his business and chooses to remain as long as he will. He is looking up at the sky, the wind-tossed hair of his falling naturally in a chestnut colored waterfall. His hazel eyes are focused on the stars in the sky, and they drift in a lazy motion.

When his neck grows tired, he lies down upon the grass, snuggling into the cool feeling. And when his eyes grow tired, he whispers, "I know you're out there somewhere," the words slowly becoming less defined as he gives way to a nightly dream, one that he never remembers...

"Hey you," a weak, kind voice rises from the blackness, and pictures take shape. A woman, she who has spoken, lies in a hospital bed breathing deeply, and using every last ounce of strength for this moment. The man knows her - and he is overcome with a deep penetrating grief. This is his wife, this woman with the most beautiful smile, sweetest eyes and loveliest touch, despite the cancer that is killing her.

Now he is sure he is dreaming, because this cancer has defeated her long ago - this scene is of a past that is impossible to relive except for in dreams. It' s all only a beautiful memory of her as she lay dying amongst the nicely pressed sheets and thin pillows. She never said, "I love you." Just those two words were all she managed, and she took his hand. Then she went to sleep.

The scene blurs, and a voice calls out to the man.

"Hey you," his wife calls, and she appears to him as a magnificent apparition. Now he realizes that he is standing in the field where he fell asleep, and she is there - dressed all in white. She takes his hand, and she is warm and fleshy - he can barely stand to breathe. The whites of his eyes have gone red, turning the hazel a brilliant color, and a tear rolls over his cheek. "Don't cry... I'm here to take you home."

The man has never been very religious, nor has he ever been truly imaginative. Rather, his is a logical faith, and his eyes begin to lose their awe.

"Please, don't," she urges him, sensing that he is, once again letting his brain rule his heart. "You may be dreaming, but I am real... it's not time for you to wake up yet," and now she owns a look of such pure hurt, that she holds him tight and his hand begins to turn red. "You must not wake up, or else I will lose you again!... Instead, just listen..." She urges him to listen to his heart, to behold what he refuses to see, and that once he believes they can be happy again.

Forms take shape, and he becomes and onlooker with her. They delve into a forgotten memory, one that he had long ago...

His wife is dying of cancer, and he is clutching her hand so tightly that she winces in a slight pain... soon after, she dies and he cries. He cries and cries for days. The work that once consumed his life becomes second to his wife at last.