Believing in premonitions is like telling someone the weather man is actually a psychic.
I know that the weather man is just a regular John, reading off a teleprompter, because that’s how life works.
Today though, I feel like I glimpsed a fragment of my future.
It felt like strong déjà vu, like catching sight of something through dirty glass.
You know it’s there but you can’t define the edges.
There is a warmly lit kitchen with chestnut benches that are littered with cooking tit-bits and unopened mail. It feels homey, with the warm smell of fresh coffee pervading the space.
The wide, flat tiles are cold again my bare feat and my sweater is itching my neck while I hurry into the kitchen. I look around for something, sorting through different papers on the bench.
Through a french-style window above the sink I can see the garden, leaves still rimmed with frost. Winter is just beginning, the sun would soon melt the ice and enhance the insistent greenness.
Suddenly, something clutches at my jeans, scrabbling to get my attention. A pudgy boy, bundled in clothes grins up at me, hands sticky with honey and crumbs.
Smiling warmly, I reach down and pick up a wriggly mass of happiness.
This is the scene that plays like a broken record, imprinted in my eyelids.
Whether it happens or not, it’s a nice feeling believing that someday your efforts will all be worth it.