I walked a clay road, with yellow bricks marching alongside.
There were white stars of Bethlehem blooming all around, and they shimmered in the sudden depth of light.
Images from recent experience flooded through me, and ended with a grainy, slightly out-of-focus memory of Kohana seated at the Wagner concert, six years old, with her pageboy haircut, gazing intently at the mural on the ceiling.
I could almost make out the music too. Instead of any sorrow, or annoyance, I felt oddly uplifted.
Just then, skipping ahead of me, I spotted that familiar miniature person in the red cloak. Another six-year-old.
I hurried my step, and in a couple of minutes kept pace beside her.
The sun, a powerful thing, was now well above the horizon.
My daughter reached out and took my hand. I looked down at her face and I smiled. That face was the most beautiful, serene sight I’ve ever beheld.