She raises her hands and covers her closed eyes with them. Tries not to think of anything. When she presses the fingertips tight against her lids, it arrives, magically. Phosphene. This she knows about. This she can think about. And when it fades into something else, she feels a sense of arrival. She lives for journeys.
What is within her sight interests her now. In her sight, so delicately held by her fingertips, there is a house, an aged white clapboard. Maybe the house is in Maine or Massachusetts, but she cannot be sure of this. Quickly, she needs to know what surrounds the old house. Some trees, to be sure. Perhaps a pond, frozen or not. What fascinates her most is the lawn that surrounds the house.
The lawn is full of clouds. All shapes and colors. The clouds are drifting, carrying the house along. Another journey. Through space. Then, on the clouds, a boy appears. Maybe fifteen years old, and nude. Longish brown hair. He is walking through the clouds. She knows him, has seen him before, always walking. She even has a name for him. Tim. He walks through the clouds and never seems to stop for rest. A sky pilgrim.
He exists for her alone. If she takes her fingertips from her eyes, he's gone. The house disappears. Clouds drift up and away. Whatever was there must wait for her, for another chance. It's up to her. Her touch. Everything depends on this.