Heaven Waiting

I had a dream when I was ten. A dream about a boy. A boy I only knew in my dreams. He was familiar and innocent. He was climbing a tree, carefree and gay. He'd climbed as far as he could, and he reached towards the heavens. He saw a piece of heaven waiting for him, and he longed to go there.

But he couldn't climb or reach any higher, so he stayed there as long as he could. He stayed there all day, all afternoon and into the evening. When the night fell and the moon came out, he could no longer see that piece of heaven. So he climbed back down, to the moist nights' grass, where he fell into a deep slumber.

When he awoke he found himself older, and the world had aged around him. It had grown darker and harsher than he remembered from his youth. The tree he had climbed was no longer there, and neither was that glimpse of heaven. He walked the world over searching for another tree to climb, one that may offer him another piece of heaven, a heaven waiting for him.

The boy grew to be a man, a man who had nearly given up the idea of a heaven that waited for him, atop a tree that he longed to climb again, a tree he had lost to his younger self. Yet he still believed that there was a piece of heaven, a piece of heaven waiting for him.