I put the book down and slip out from under the blanket. A postcard with the painting of a wild rose on a deep, dark background tucked between page 42 and 43.
The warmth from the beginning, the child in me overwhelmed when I reached chapter three.
Time for some fresh air. Already in my pyjamas I grab the blanket, slip into my boots, scarf and coat on, the balcony door unlocked, I step into the other world.
A mild night. I sit on the bench where the crow perched a few days ago, and lift my eyes up to the moon. Clouds come and go, and yet this magical sight is so familiar from a time long before my soul was forced into this body.
Sometimes the cloud cover thins out and you can see its veins and scars. Many, many lives ago this was my home, this is where I belonged, amongst the light above and the moist ground under my feet.
Quietly I ask him, where do I belong now?
Certain of the answer he may give me, I close my eyes, my head falling back, and let the wind slowly kiss my dried tears.
When I dare look again, my eyes wander to the shadowy outlines of the oak, so much more than a memory, and the longer we both indulge in memories, the more I shake my head.
So much has changed since you were a sapling, and when I celebrated my first Samhain. People still had faith then, they still believed in us. But now, even I forgot for a moment…
Tell me, my wise old friend, now that the truth has returned, am I about to metamorphose into a crow?
