Knowing My Way Home
Last night I woke from a dream, or perhaps just the tail end of it, but it lingered with the quiet insistence of something that mattered. I was standing by a road beside my late uncle — the man who raised me as a child, whose presence in my life had always been one of steady guidance. He looked at me and asked which direction we should take. Without hesitation, I said left. We went that way, and somehow, I knew it was the right choice.
As we walked, I noticed something glinting on the ground — a small marble, greenish in color with a faint shade of brown running through it. When I picked it up, it felt heavier than an ordinary glass marble, as though it held more than its size could contain. I remember feeling quietly pleased, as if I had found something valuable — not in money or rarity, but in meaning.
When I awoke, the thought that settled in my chest was simple yet profound: I knew my way home.
The green and brown of that marble reminded me of the Earth itself — green for growth, brown for the soil that grounds us. Perhaps it was a sign, a gentle whisper from the unseen, that I am still guided, still held by the same love and wisdom that once raised me. The path I chose in the dream — the left path, the path of the heart — is the one that brings me back to where I belong.
Sometimes the messages come not as thunder or revelation, but as a small, weighty marble found on the road beside a loved one long gone. And in such quiet moments, I am reminded that the way home has never been lost — only waiting to be remembered.
Caption:
A dream, a direction, a small marble that felt like a world — and the quiet knowing that I have always known my way home.
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