He stood up, toddling to his left, then to his right; the lake shimmered in the afternoon Sun, the water at rest, peace in its stillness. He laughed and lunged from the docks to explore what was below - but I reached out and called, "You are so young and full of life; be careful of the depths."
As tall as me now, he bent down and gathered the scattered papers; he heaved the weight of his pack, the novels, notebooks, reference books, mountains of knowledge chiseled into sheaves of paper. He turned and stepped away to reach for another book on the shelf - but I called: "There is so much for you to discover; don't forget what you already have."
A long table stretched out before him, encircled by scholars, eyes and minds open to give him the answers books had failed to give, generations of insight, forged wisdom, keen intellectuals. Ready to question, he raised his hand and commanded their attention - but I called: "See both the truths and the deceptions; guard your heart; do not be consumed by the fire."
Beside my bed, he inclined his head and grasped my hand; the night called to me through the open window, the clouds shrouding and then revealing the stars and the moon in their allure. He wept and began to plead, calling with broken heart to the One who is the Highest - but I reached out and whispered: "What knowledge will bring you peace? To know how much I have always loved you? No, it is this truth you must never forget, the truth that I have always cherished: from the depth of who I am, to the most secret place of my heart - I have always known how you have loved me so."