Midnight Clouds at Whisperwind Acres

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. And every night, like clockwork, my son and I would brush our teeth, get into our PJ's, gather our blankets and pillows, and make our way outside to settle in promptly at 11:55pm.

"I wonder what the story will be tonight," James would often say as he nestled into me, clutching his teddy bear. I always reminded myself to savour these moments when my little boy still felt little. If only I had known just how quickly the precious years would pass.

It didn't matter if it was a rainy or stormy day. Somehow, it never failed to clear up before midnight on the farm. It had always been that way—for my son, for me, for my parents, my grandparents, and so on.

Whisperwind Acres had belonged to our family for at least seven generations. To us, the magic that happened at night over the farm field was simply a normal and expected part of our day, much like getting dressed and having breakfast was. It was routine. It was also a sacred and treasured event to us, however, so we made sure to keep the secret close to our hearts.

Our worst fear was our magic little piece of sky being taken advantage of by others who didn't understand and respect it, or worse, who wanted to capitalize on it. This posed some challenges over the decades, with visitors overstaying their welcome late into the evenings, and almost losing the property once or twice in hard times. Somehow, we managed to not only keep our cherished 246 acres, but to keep this gift that kept on giving in the early hours of the morning.

We always parked ourselves in the same spot: the softest, fluffiest patch of grass about fifteen feet south of the tire swing tree. It didn't have to be this exact spot for it all to unfold as it did each night, but it was the spot that James and I liked the best. It was my favourite spot to cuddle up with my parents when I was a kid, too.

As we watched the clouds slowly approach, they shifted in colour from a dark blue to the familiar and comforting deep, majestic purple. While we waited, I pondered silently about my son and the separation from his dad, like I did most nights.

James was only three years old when we awoke to our new reality without him. He just completely vanished overnight, without even a note left behind. We contacted police, of course, but without any evidence of foul play they chalked it up to Michael leaving voluntarily. This never sat right with me, but it was the only explanation I had to cling to.

Every day for months, James asked me where daddy was, and every day I attempted to reassure him—with words that were also selfishly meant to reassure myself. Yet the months and years passed, and James' memory of Michael, his dad, became fainter and fainter, along with any sense of hope that he would be coming back to us. I was ashamed to admit that even I was forgetting what it felt like to be in Michael's arms, what he smelled like, and even what his voice sounded like.

At nine years old by this point, James rarely brought up the topic of his dad, and when he did, it was with a level of emotional detachment and maturity that you would not expect from a kid his age. Despite James handling his missing dad like a champ, I missed the nightly routine with the three of us so much it made my heart ache.

We were such a great team, and things always felt easy. That's what hurt the most about being abandoned without even a goodbye. We had little disagreements now and then like every couple does, but otherwise my relationship with Michael was solid. We had been together for twelve years, married for five. We really loved each other. At least, I thought we did. Plus, he and James were two peas in a pod. I never saw him as the kind of guy to leave his kid. My husband's departure truly was the biggest puzzle of my life.

Snapping myself back to reality, at exactly midnight the purple clouds shape-shifted and hung low in the sky above our heads, just like countless nights before.

"Are you ready?" I asked James.

"Always, mom." James said with a big smile and eager eyes. This never got old.

As the night's story began to unfold before us in the softly illuminated underside of the purple clouds, our eyes became heavy. Within a few minutes, we had both drifted off to sleep, transported into the clouds' story like a vivid waking dream—just like the night before, and the night before that.

Except on that particular night, the story was different than any one we had experienced up until that point.

There he was, standing in front of us for the first time in a little over six years, inside the cloud dream.