The sweet aroma never left that cool, dark night. Sweetness so unworldly, it was as if a wind of another planet came for a long and never ending visit. So sweet was the wind, it could only have come from Pluto. Gentle and shy, it snaked through my air and down my calf like any normal wind would, but never did it take its majestic leave as all winds tend to do. No, the wind stayed. My wind from Pluto must have decided that the night was young enough, the moon was bright enough, and the grass was just soft enough to stay for a while after its long journey. I accepted its company with great joy and comport.

The field was large, a breech through the mountains. Yes, it was a valley, but in my younger days, I called it a field, not knowing any better. And so, it stayed my field from there on after. Never did I try to correct myself and call it a valley, for it was my field. And in my field, I could think. Thinking was a virtue that was sometimes lost in the rough and tumble of the human life, and thinking definitely wasn’t what I was best at. I was young, and so was the night. What could I say if my actions were like lightning, but my thoughts booming in the after math of a great thunder? Although I was young, the night was young, and my wind from Pluto seemed young, my field was not. My field was made in the beginning. Just stepping onto the soft grass, laying amongst the years of our world, thoughts would come through faster, easier. The field would sometimes share its wise knowledge as I sat there. Like so many other things in our world, the field could talk, you just had to listen. And, for once, I could hear. I could only hear in that field though, my field.

Did I mention that the night was young, just like me? The night with the pale moon, (ah, such a pretty moon) was my night. Kind and understanding, my own kin, the night shared with me the growing, the sadness, and the love. My night was dark and surrounding, like a blanket of warmth with its gentle flecks of stars and its pale, gentle white moon. My night would stay there with me until the sun, bossy and bright, decided it was time for the day. Then, my night had bid farewell to me, and promise we would meet again. When, I cannot say. I didn’t think we could have the same night twice, and I knew my dear, kind night had moved on for good. A soft promise it made to come back, but it was one made in foolish hope. However, young things are foolish. My night was young, just like me. And I thought, ‘Yes, my night will return!’ for I was foolish too, being young. Looking back though, I wonder what happened to my night. I wish I could whisper a message to it, wherever it had gone to. Perhaps it had gone to Pluto, in place of my sweet wind from Pluto. Perhaps it sees better nights there than most, considering the sun is so far away. I like to think that.

My field, my night, and my wind all gave me strength, courage, and happiness I never thought I could muster at such a young and hopeless age, but I did. Love is powerful, strong, and never forgetful. My night, my wind, my field. They loved me and I loved them. Was that not enough for that one night? No, it wasn’t. But alas, the hours I had with it were grand and well furnished with thoughts and secrets and peace. That, I must say, was the greatest of the gifts from God. And now they rest with him. They are his. He shall take care of them, just as he takes care of me. He shall love them, just as he loves me. And perhaps I will meet them again where I end up in the future. Perhaps I will come to their resting place up there in the sky, frozen in time, and once again speak my gentle words. Once again, maybe, I will have My Night, My Wind from Pluto, and My Field. I like to think that.