I had walked through more valleys, crossed more streams and climbed more passes than I cared to remember. At the end of my life there was only one brief moment worth to member. I sat down and knew that I would not rise again, my journey had came to an end.

I remembered the rainy evening I had come to the little village in the forgotten valley. I could still recall the emerald color of the little pond, and the perfectly pink waterlilies dancing gracefully to the melody of the falling rain.

Right before I came into the village I saw a family of travellers huddling under the shelter of large oak. Their eyes told the story of being shut out from society, shunned as gypsies and thieves.

I was not in a hurry but the rain soaked through my clothes. I still remember the moment when, I for an instant, looked into the eyes of the young daughter. This was the moment my life could have turned, but I continued to walk, and I know that only she saw my brief hesitation.

I saw how her eyes changed from curiosity and hope to loathing and contempt.

If I had but stayed a little bit longer, sat down and talked, I know that the path of my life would have been different, and like butterflies we would have seen infinity together.

Now I sit here looking at the same village, after many years I’m back, my life is gone, and I have all the time in the world to wait under the oak tree. I see a young man coming down the road, and he stops by me and sits down.

We share my last bit of bread in silence and then he says:

“My grandmother always told me to look for you here, she is waiting for you now”

I smiled, and looked him deep into the same eyes that defined the only time I had time enough. I laid down and closed my eyes.

I was home.