Dreams, though, can make the journey hard.

Who could say, for real, whether the soft crunch of sand underfoot is that of a genuine beach, or simply the imagination of a childlike state of mind.

But, when the door opened in my dream, I stepped through. Ignoring the cut and thrust of overgrown brambles that hung broodily over the half buried path, walked the long sullen road to the beach.

Then crossed, barefoot, a short section of silken sand where the waves gently eased themselves around my ankles with a soft calling voice. Tempting me to linger in the warm, clear blue water.

Ignoring the mysterious call I walked on.

I was here for her, to see her, to bring a gift. A small, velvet wrapped gift that somehow appeared in my hands. A crimson ribbon, the color of fresh blood, tied the soft case firmly closed.

One more walk through an ancient orchard, trees long dried from their fruitful harvest, brought me to her door.

It was my dream, my special dream.

And yet, in my heart, I paused.