I walked with Grandma through the forest. I was five years old. In a clearing I saw a white brick wall, flanking a tiny country lane gently winding along under big summer trees. Then the picture quivered and I looked back into the past.

Under a mighty orange flower tree,  in its calm perfumed shade

At the side of a white-walled lane

We stood together and faced each other

He was tall, maybe six feet, white cotton- clad

Dark-blue smooth loving eyes

Radiating enormous power, he looked at me in peace

I met his eyes with my deepest emotion, trust, both sadness and joy

Knowing we would never meet again

The next day I walked with Mom to the railway station. A young couple wearing strange dresses reminded me of yesterday’s daydream. “Mom, where do these people come from?” “They are from a far-away land, son. It’s a place called India.”

© 2004 by Franz L Kessler