You, there.

I am throwing a smooth, grey stone your way. It will land near your left foot.

You will look up from the book you've been trying to read, take your glasses off, and bend down from your seat to pick the stone up. You will turn it in your hands, wondering where it's from, but only for a little while. You will soon realize it's from me, and you will not find it strange, no, not at all. You will not look for a crack in your roof, you will not wonder about distances. You will not think about strangeness, because you and I have already been to most worlds, together.

You will only think about sunlit gardens, wide straw hats, coffee in the rain, shared seats in flights to nowhere, warm hugs, buttered potatoes, pecks on the nose, foot massages. You will think about The Sundays, you will hear me reciting poetry. You will remember that story I wrote, many years ago. You will think of that story you filled with songs, moonbeams, and stars, wrapped in pretty paper, tied with a bow, and gave me on my birthday. You will mumble to yourself, "I once rescued her from a flood of tears, yes, I did." Because you did.

You will smile, dear one, you will be happy. And if I have to keep throwing stones your way for the rest of this life just to remind you I am here, then that is exactly what I will do, even now, as the bones on my hip start to ache from the weight of years, even if it means I have to plod through decades and dimensions, and walk back miles to where we started.

You will smile, dear one, right this very instant.