A thick fog fell over the field, like an army of fading ghosts. Any figure outside a few yards could only be a shadow; any voice heard could not be placed in a certain direction. A young man and his teacher, free for the day from strictly academic work, wandered through the mist and over the dew. Lost is not a place but a perspective; a child who fears instead of exploring.
One might have asked where they were going. In response, he may have received an explanation that there was no destination. The companions were already home.
The younger told his friend of childish hopes and dreams which were soon to die, like the flowers in this, the end of autumn. Their petals hold on to every last moment of life before November’s frost.
Children rushed over the field, playing make-believe: believing they were from another age, believing in a day’s freedom, believing in a faith not quite their own.
“All good things must find a conclusion,” the young romantic would sigh in the future, closing in ever so softly. To this, his mentor would repeat, “And still there is Christ.”