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I laughed at her solemn words. “It’ll take me till I’m healed, Puff. Before then, you’ll be…your body will be, off to Florida. Then three months, or four, you’ll be flying again. Unless you’d prefer to vanish from Earth’s sky into yours.”
“Not my skies, Richard, our skies. Earth’s sky is mortality, the lessons of illusions. The next sky’s…a step up. I prefer to fly with you again, though, here. We have a story to finish, don’t we?”
“Of course. The crash was one paragraph in our story. An important paragraph, of course. Every story loves a test, a challenge that can destroy the story. The other side, though, that’s where we’ll be in a little while. My body healed, yours healed, too. And we fly.”
“Your choice,” she said. “I’ll be asleep to mortals, just broken pieces. The real me, I’ll fly in spirit’s sky. But when you tell me to come back here, I’ll come back.” She smiled, “Perfect obedience.”
She thought for a minute. “I may be a little different, with my new body. Take it slowly till I remember, till I know who you are. I may be frightened. Mortals, airplanes and humans, we’re slow to remember spirit.”
“You as a mortal,” I said, a smile. “Sure enough. We’ll take it easy, for a while.”
“Till then,” she said.
“Do you want a different name, Puff? Something that says Determination, through this test?”
“I like my name,” she said. “If I were a four-engine transport, and you were to fly me around the world…I’d still be Puff. You know what it means. So fragile, yet eternal, a perfect expression of love.” She smiled. “Do you want a different name?”
I laughed. “No thank you. We shall have our same names. See you soon, Puff.”
“Till then, Richard.”
The colors faded, the hangar was dark again, Puff’s broken pieces were still.
Her life, as mine, will continue after dying. What had Shimoda said?
In every disaster, in every blessing, ask, "Why me?"
There's a reason, of course, there's an answer.
Chapter 7
The world of space, time and appearances can be wondrous beautiful. Just don't mistake them for real.
It was midnight, nearly a thousand midnights since Lucky had died, and all at once I felt his weight on my hospital bed. I had heard of it time and again, in accounts of dear animals once gone, come to touch us again.
There was no body there just the belief of his weight, but I knew who it was.
“Hi, dear Lucky!”
Not a bark, not a sound, but I felt the familiar weight of him, I imagined him again in the dark, the soft charcoal and bronze of him, the spotless snow of his paws and his bright white scarf, always so formal.
How many times we had run across the field and meadow near our home, Lucky the Sheltie, one second half hidden in the tall grasses, then in a bound flying over the green on his next stride, running to meet me. All so beautiful now in the night, his dark eyes watching me, thoughts for words.
“Hi Richard. Want to run?”
“I have a little problem…”
He considered that. “I had one, too, on Earth. Not now. And you can run, now, too.”
The land where I awoke then, was like my home, but not quite. It grew manicured, not the wild places I knew. As Lucky had said, I could run.
He trotted along by my left leg, as we had so many times before.
I slowed to a walk for him. The sun dappled the path, summer lights and shadows in the forest. A quiet afternoon.
“What’s happened for you, Lucky? All the time you’ve been gone.”
“Not gone,” he said. “Listen: Not gone!”
