I was awake, how?

No pain.

No coma.

I thought I was dying?

I look out into a sea of green grass. I feel the warm sun and I slightly arch my back to let the warmth fall up my skin. I feel fed, but how?

No UV lighting.

The sun as my nourishment

No monitors.

I must be free.

It’s hard to describe what I smell… the pure aroma of existence, and something else - flowers?

I can hear my mom sobbing

“Mom mom! It’s me”

I try to tell her “it’s okay.”

But her weeping grows heavier.

“She can’t hear you” says a voice that creeps into my mind.

Telepathy?

“Not telepathy” says the voice.

“Can you hear my thoughts?” I ask.

“Yes”

I’m suddenly fearful to think. Am I dead? Oh God I must be dead.

“You’re not dead,” says the voice “you’re transformed”

“Transformed?”

“What was your name?”

“Was?”

“What did your mother call you?”

The voice is soothing and I can’t help but feel at peace, somehow?

“Abigail” I say

“Abigail, my sweet Abigail.”

I try to turn around and look but it’s impossible.

“Lean towards the sun” says the voice.

“I do and empowerment sweeps my body, movement, upright posture, contentment, body stretching, I feel alive… and then OUCH!

Sharp! What was that?

“Sorry” says the voice. “It was my thorns, you have them too.”

“What do you mean?”

A wind blows and I feel the reliance of nature.

I feel pedals blossoming in the christening sun, the air slides across my skin and I recognize the aroma. Roses?

“Yes. Roses”

Says the voice.

Roses are my favorite flower.

“I know. Mine too” says the voice.

“Who are you?” I ask suddenly aware of how connected we are.

“Your grandmother. Rooted in time and space. Relativity.”

“My grandmother is dead.”

“No I’m not. And you aren’t either. We’re just different.”

Through the ground I feel a circular patterned being traced near my feet followed by a loving tap, just like my grandmother used to do.”

“We’re in a flower pot” says grandmother

And I am starting to comprehend this peculiar yes comforting phenomenon

Just then my mother picks me up in her arms and I’m aware of how big she is now.

She puts her face over the top of me and sniffs.

“Roses” she says.

“Abigail loved roses. My mom did too. I will plant this for them in my garden and talk with them everyday”

And she did

Grandmother and I were planted in a garden at my home, loved by my mother, grandmother’s daughter….

In a heavenly place where roots tie you back to your loved ones.