My son gazed up at me and declared, “Mommy, when you were a little girl, and I was a grown man, I remember us dancing in the garden by the white tree.” A shiver ran through me. The only person I had ever danced with in that garden during my childhood was my grandfather. His backyard was a sanctuary, graced with a majestic white oak that stood as a guardian of our cherished moments. I was maybe six or seven when he would turn on his old, crackling radio and offer his hand to me. I would place my small hand in his, and we’d dance barefoot on the lush grass, twirling under the protective branches of the white tree. Those moments felt pure and magical, a treasure we shared in quiet harmony.
I had never spoken of those memories to anyone. Not my parents, not my friends, not even years later when the happiness of those days turned bittersweet with sorrow after my grandfather’s passing. It was a precious secret I kept close, tucked away in my soul. So how could my son, only five years old, know of it? He wasn’t even born during my grandfather’s lifetime. Yet his eyes carried a calm assurance, as if he had been there beside me. My throat tightened, but I found the strength to ask gently, “Sweetheart, what else do you remember?” His face brightened as he said, “You wore a yellow dress. I spun you, and your laughter echoed around us. You told me to hold you forever.”
My knees felt weak. That day was etched in my memory. I had worn my favorite yellow sundress, and when I faltered during a twirl, my grandfather steadied me in his firm embrace. Half-laughing, half-serious, I had pleaded, “Don’t let me go.” He had bent down and whispered, “I never will.” Tears brimmed in my eyes as my son reached up, his tiny hand grazing my cheek, as if he sensed the weight of his words. In that moment, something awakened within me. Perhaps it was merely a child’s vivid imagination—or perhaps love transcends our comprehension, weaving through time, finding new ways to persist. Maybe my grandfather had honored his promise, never truly leaving me.
I pulled my son close and murmured, “Thank you for remembering. Thank you for bringing him back to me.” That evening, as I tucked him into bed, I looked out at the night sky and felt a soft peace settle over me. Some bonds never fade; they simply take new shapes. And perhaps love never truly leaves—it returns in ways we could never foresee.
