I wonder if swans see the beauty of a sunset. See the way their movements change and distort it’s reflection in the shimmeiring water. I wonder if they see the brilliant colours, and admire them the same way we do.

I wonder if wolves see beauty in smell. The way it lingers and tells stories only they can read. Do they love the smell of dead, rotting flesh they way we might love sizzling fried chicken? Would they be lost without smell more than without sight?

I wonder if cheetahs love to run. Do they feel light? Feel a rush? Do they ever run just for the sake of it? Do they race each other to see who is fastest?

I wonder if birds love to fly. To be carried by the wind and see the world in an endless stretch around them. To leap off the edge of a cliff, dive in a rush and pull up at the last second. Do they get depressed if they can't fly anymore? Like a person who can no longer walk?

I wonder. If mice told horror stories, would they involve cats?

I wonder if the idea of an afterlife is unique to humans. Because you can never know what another being believes, if you cannot communicate with them.

I wonder if there are entire worlds we are blind to. Like a person without sight, we simply do not have the senses to detect that world, and are oblivious that it is all around us.

I wonder how limited our minds really are.

When we die, will we see everything, or nothing?

Do all living things fear death?

If there is an afterlife, why is death so universally feared?

“God Anna! You’re white as a sheet!”

My easy-going neighbor a few miles over, who’s driving me home during a blizzard-from-hell today, is baffled by my dread.

“Seriously Russ?” I reply. “How are you not stressed driving on these roads so slick with snow and ice? If we were to skid off the highway into the ditch, this old jeep could roll. More than once. I’ve been told that some SUVs are top-heavy.”

I sigh. I know that Russ knows my babbling is really nothing more than a feeble attempt at using sarcasm to mask my heart-stopping fear.

“Relax Anna, Banana, my friend,” Russ smiles at his silly joke and his tone is quietly soothing; we’ve been friends long enough for him to have figured out what exactly I need to hear. “I’m good at driving on ice, been doing it for many decades now. When you live this far out in the boonies, you tend to get a bit of practice at this sort of thing. And... my winter tires are brand new this year. Besides, look, you’re almost home.”

I peer out the window into the icy-blue evening and all I can see are big drifts of snow pummelling the windshield, and the fogged-out faint yellow glow of car lights up ahead. In the distance, I vaguely make out the shapes of trees with bare grey sticks for branches, now dusted with white. I try to focus strictly on my surroundings and realize that yes, Russ is right, I am almost home. Thank God.

And thank Russ, which I do with a squeeze of his hand and a promise to bake him a batch of my banana chocolate chip muffins real soon. Then I jump out of his toasty vehicle into the biting frostiness that takes my breath away. I can’t wait to get into the warmth of my house so my mind barely registers a package sitting on the front porch; I simply scoop it up and hurry on inside.

Once the fire’s going, the chilled Chardonnay’s poured and the flickering flames of orange and cranberry-scented candles are dancing hypnotically, I turn my attention to the parcel I brought in. Laying out a dishtowel, I set the sopping brown paper-covered package on it, right in the middle of my pine coffee table.

Then I stare at it for a few minutes before tearing it open and praying that it’s nothing bad.

Just months shy of my thirty-ninth birthday, I’m a bundle of nerves on any given good day, never mind on a bad day when something happens and my anxiety spikes big time.

Paper removed, I uncover a metal box with a key and a note taped to the top. It reads: You did the right thing. A truly kind thing. Apologies I didn’t leave this for you twenty years ago. I assembled it on January 19th, 1997. But at the last minute I decided to keep it hidden instead. It hasn’t been opened since. Still, if you can forgive me, please call this number or send an email to this address. My name is Stacey. And… I just recently found out that her name… is Hannah.

Both the memories and the irony hit me hard. Like an angry slap across the face, I almost reel from the imaginary blow.

Exactly twenty years ago tonight, the weather was behaving the exact same way. And the exact same unease wrapped me in a chilling embrace when I sat… here… in this exact same living room.

Listening to strange… eerie… sounds… all around me.

Just like tonight, the blizzard outside raged and I had lit the same fire, poured a glass of the same wine, and breathed in the same citrusy fragrance hanging in the air now.

I’ll never forget the ordeal I had endured the night before, just as the whiteout hit, when my tiny grey kitten Sabrina had somehow gotten loose. I was a blubbering heap of emotion as I frantically searched for her all over the dark secluded acreage I live on.

Armed with a flashlight and dressed as warmly as I could manage in my haste, I walked around calling her name until my toes were numb. Imagining how scared and cold she must be was torture. I finally found her huddled against a toolshed and mewing up a storm (no bloody pun intended). I was so relieved I cried even harder. Safely home, nothing made my heart sing more than seeing her warm and fed, curled into a ball on the couch and purring non-stop.

But the next evening when I thought I heard a similar squeaky cry for help, I thought I was going crazy.

Like what the hell? Sabrina was right there across from me on the wicker chair! Sleeping soundly, not making a peep.

So what was that noise? Had I forgotten to take my anxiety meds this morning? Was it all part of my illness somehow?

After listening intently for five long minutes, I determined it had to be real. Even though I kept hearing it on and off and so faintly at times.

Then, out of the blue, it got more pronounced! There’s no way I was imagining that! My first thought was that another stray kitten had ended up outside in the sub-zero temperatures. My next had to do with stalkers and intruders.

When the storm’s shrill moaning amplified, the sound was muffled once again.

But I swore to myself that I could still hear it. A split second later, the wind died down a touch, and my ears picked up the racket… loud and clear.

Suddenly, I knew exactly what it was.

A baby crying!

I donned my winter clothing fast as I could, not bothering to tuck my long hair under my hat, and stepped out into the harsh biting night. Only this time I didn’t need to go far. There it was. Right there on my very bottom doorstep. Lying in a laundry basket and wrapped in several layers of blankets. Screaming like a banshee.

It was the moment my world changed forever.

In the still bitterly-cold wintry days that followed, I felt something spring-like blossom inside my heart that I had never felt before. It nestled itself there like one-hundred percent pure love. I fell hard for that little girl who I nurtured for seven whole days and, unable to stop myself, began calling Brianna.

When I finally surrendered her to the authorities after being told I couldn’t keep her, my heart cracked like a walnut between the steel jaws of the nut-cracker and I was never the same again. The worse part was that they wouldn’t share information with me as to where that precious child had gone and I was treated like some kind of criminal for asking. No one seemed to care that I was the person who had rescued her from a painful frostbitten-death. Tiny Brianna was probably only a few hours old and so fragile when I took her in.

Russ had helped me back then too. Minding his own business and without questions asked, he drove into town and bought me everything I needed. Diapers, formula, bottles, even a bassinette and baby blankets. After all this time, I’m still reminded of that one of a kind baby smell clinging to the soft pastel-colored fabric...

Snapping back into the present once again, I mentally pluck the cobwebs away, unlock the box and lift the lid. There are two photographs and another note inside. Unnerved by the pictures, my hands tremble.

I can’t believe it’s twenty years later and here I am on another January 19th looking at her sweet face courtesy of two polaroids taken on the night I saved her. The way she’s captured in the pics is the way I remember her to this day, her image will always be etched across my scarred heart.

My fingers fumble with the edges of the thin paper as I unfold the short letter.

Dear somebody,

My name is Stacey and I just gave birth in a house deep in the woods where the devil lives. He’s a mean man who hurts me, hurts lots of people. But I can’t let him hurt this baby too. And he will. He will come home drunk one night, get real mad and do something terrible. I won’t let that happen. I know the weather’s freezing but as I sit with my friend in her car outside your house, it looks like you’re home. So please help. That monster can’t know about her, it’s too dangerous. I told him she died. Stillbirth I said. Told him I buried her deep in the forest. He believed me but beat me up anyway. Just for fun. Please help her find a loving parent.

Oh how Stacey’s words pierce my already brittle heart!

When the dawn’s light creeps into my window the next day, the sky is still overcast. But it’s much warmer as I can see it’s stopped snowing and the roads are no longer white but dark and wet, the ice completely melted into the asphalt.

My morning coffee in hand, I open my laptop. I’ve decided to write Stacey an email.

Perhaps I’m just a nerd with an anxiety disorder and it’s in my genes to detect odd things. But I just can’t help considering, once again, some kind of irrefutable irony going on here.

Because, what I noticed after reading Stacey’s notes is that both Brianna and Hannah have the same name within them. Anna.

Which also happens to be my name. For some reason, I just don’t feel like that’s a complete coincidence. Somehow, I feel like it might be... fate.

What happens in the following months is amazing. I learn that Hannah was told about me after all and that she’s always wanted to meet me. She searched to find her birth-mom too and never blamed Stacey for her actions. Almost immediately, all three of us bond in a way that feels like a blessing. Turns out, we have much to celebrate. Starting with Stacey’s daring yet successful escape from the abusive swine whose hands she suffered at for a very long time. And then... her freedom... and her incredible journey towards something she never dreamed could be possible. The steps she took, the barriers and obstacles she had to overcome, the highs and the lows on her path towards meeting, and getting to finally know, her beautiful precious daughter.

I did not create this reality, you did; everyone did but surely not me. I am just a passenger. There is no way I would have purposely created THIS for myself. I struggle daily trying to find my place in the world. I envy anyone who is so set in their convictions, their belief and style. They embrace it yet I refuse mine. I live between your reality and mine. The awareness of the matrix. I stare at people and think ′ this is not real’ . Yet what is real? Is it real because in experiencing this reality I can touch, hear, smell, and see? What about my intuition? My third-eye? Doesn’t it warrant some acknowledgement? To feel something outside the perameters of the physical is considered taboo. It is said nothing is to be trusted if you cannot confirm with your phyical senses. When we utlize our intuition it is marked with scorn since it is beyond the capabilty to measure. The only way to prove an intuition to be true is to be measured by our physical senses. If I have a feeling that someone is cheating- the feeling does not make it true- but the physical senses captures the evidence to determine to truth.

When did this become acceptable? Who decided it was a good idea to discredit the primative or shall I say the sophisticated part of you? Why along the way did we decide to neglect that part of ourselves? Some would argue the human race has evolved, gained intelligence thus creating a complex world. The material world has now become our God. We only believe what we can witness through our five senses. The existence of a divine being is taught as an outside source that only a few have the privledge to know. What about the divine being inside of you? That voice inside offering guidance is silenced by the conditioning of society. I am here in this world that is rumored it was created by some unknown mysterious force. The design may not be mine, but I can follow the clues to my true existence. The clues are tailored to the individual. I am on to something.......... I can sense it.