I was standing on a stone road looking down past my white cotton dress to my black button-up shoes, then glancing at my small hands. I was all of 3 years old. Straight ahead was a worn white picket gate spanning an entrance in a stone fence that was as high as I was tall. I looked through the gate to the home that I knew was where I lived. It was cottage in its appearance with a thatched roof. A small wooden room built off to the left with the stove pipe I knew was the kitchen. An aroma of soda bread baking filled the air. “Sarah” came a call and I reached for the hand of my father. A tall slender man with dark trousers and a tweed cap. We walked together toward town on the cobble stone road. A man coming the other way stopped and spoke to my father on the bridge we were crossing. My hand slipped from father’s hand and I wandered a few steps over to the edge of the bridge which was large white barn stones. As I looked over the edge toward the water I fell forward. I vividly saw the brick structure of the bridge as I plummeted head first into the river. That is the end of the dream every time. I assume I perished in the fall.
