Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Peter. He was a cherubic young man with rosy cheeks and an easy smile, but no smile of his was ever greater or more full of love than the one he saved for his mother and father. When Peter was in his ninth year, he grew very sick, and it concerned his parents very much because, you see, he was the dearest thing in their lives. It was his broad, loving smile that set warmth and joy in their hearts.
But Peter was in bed with a fever for many weeks and no matter how often he told his mother that he would be all right, she would still break down into tears just outside of his bedroom, not realizing he could hear her sadness. Because he was so young, he didn't understand fully that his mothers tears came not from something bad he'd done, but because she was grief-stricken by the idea that she would lose her precious little boy. It always seemed to get worse after the doctor would come to pay a visit.
"Peter, can you open your mouth wide?" he would ask, peering deep into his throat before stuffing a thermometer inside.
"Take deep breaths now, Peter," he would say as he listened to Peter's breathing. Peter would take as many deep breaths as he could before bursting out into a deep, moist cough.
"Just relax now, Peter," he would say as he felt the glands in Peter's neck and stomach with rough but gentle fingers.
Whenever he finished his examination, he would always tousle young Peter's hair and laugh, hiding a grim smile on his face.
Peter would stare longingly out the window while the doctor offered his report to Peter's parents. Outside Peter's window was the swing his father built for him on the tree in the yard. Perhaps the most fun he'd ever had in his life that he could remember was the day his father put the swing up. It was a cool, clear autumn a year past. The leaves on the tree had mostly dropped to the ground and Peter busily raked them into one giant pile while his father strung up the seat made of a scrap of discarded oak onto a sturdy branch. Anyone within a mile could hear little but their laughter for hours. Peter's father would push him higher and higher until Peter was high enough to jump headlong into the pile of leaves, scattering them back over the yard. With the help of his father, Peter would rake the leaves back up as fast as he could, trying hard to get in as many flights as possible before the sun fell and he'd be sent to bed.
Now, though, it was winter and the tree was bare-limbed and cold, dusted with snow.
Peter could not hear what the doctor told his mother, but he knew things must be bad from his concerned murmur. What told him the most, however, was the sharp, stifled cry his mother let out after the doctor finished his prognosis.
It was then that young Peter decided that he would work hard to get better and to smile his great, big, loving smile for his mother as much as he could.
But those weeks were short, and on Monday the seventeenth, Peter went to sleep for the last time.
His mother had kissed him on the forehead and his father had read him a story before he fell asleep that night, and he had one final, fevered dream eternal.
"What would you like, Peter?" A voice asked him.
"I'd like to play," Peter said. "I've been in bed a long time and I miss playing so much."
"Then you shall play," the voice said and the blackness gave way to a playground the size and like such as Peter had never seen. And feeling fit and eager to play, Peter raced about, spinning on the merry-go-round, careening down the slide, swinging on the swings, and clambering up and down the jungle gyms. But soon he became tired, playing by himself was quite exhausting, but it quickly grew lonesome.
As he thought this, he turned to see a young boy, about his age and dressed in pajamas, staring at the park, eager to play. So long had it been that Peter had had a playmate of any kind that he smiled and went over to the boy as quickly as his legs could carry him. Peter put his arm around the boy and shook his hand all at the same time. "I'm Peter. Isn't this park great? What's your name?"
"I'm John."
"Hello, John."
And that was it. They formed the sort of fast friendship that only children are capable of. For what felt like hours they played and laughed. The laughed and played almost as hard as Peter and his father on that autumn day in the past. The only difference was that this was missing the blanket of warmth and care that only a loving parent can provide. Their fun was quickly cut short, though, when a voice called John away. "It's time to move on," the voice said.
"I guess I have to go," John told Peter.
A sad appreciation crept over Peter, and he gave John a hug and thanked him for playing.
Peter stared solemnly into the bright distance, waving farewell to John on his way into the beyond. "Goodbye, John!" he shouted after him.
John was only a speck in the distance.
Peter didn't have long to mourn the departure of his new friend before a voice called out from behind him, across the green. "He-ey!"
"Hello!" Peter shouted back.
The two boys ran toward each other, finally meeting by the merry-go-round. Both boys were winded badly.
"I'm Michael," the new little boy said between heavy breaths, "What's your name?"
"Peter."
"How do you do, Peter?"
"I'm fine."
"Where are we?"
"A park, I think, but I don't know where."
"How'd we get here?"
"I don't know. I'm sure it's a dream. The last thing I remember before I got here was my father reading me a bedtime story. I was very sick then, though, and now I'm better."
"I was walking in the woods with my brother and I lost him. It seems like I've been walking for ages, but I finally came upon this place."
"Hmmm..."
"Are there any adults here?"
"I haven't seen any."
"I hope."
"Me too, but I think there's really only one thing to do until they find us."
"What's that?"
"Tag! You're it!"
With a laugh, Peter chased after Michael; back and forth their game went. Hours passed. They chased each other around trees and rocks like dogs chasing their own tails. The wonderful sound of children playing echoed in the ether for miles around until once again a voice interrupted the merriment, this time to call Michael away.
Once again, Peter felt an overwhelming compulsion to embrace his playmate and whisper to him quietly how much he appreciated their time together. Michael walked off into the distance, turning periodically to wave back at Peter, showing him how appreciated he felt during their brief time together.
Though his friend was leaving, Peter took heart, knowing that he was able to make him feel welcome and wanted. Nothing made Peter more sad than the feeling that there were people in the world who didn't have love and care, people who appreciated them. Then Peter tried to imagine what it would be like to be lost, separated from his family the way Michael had been. He tried hard to empathize, but he simply couldn't wrap his head around it. Trying too hard to fathom that sense of abandonment made his brain spin about like the merry-go-round he was sitting on. Peter liked feeling comforted and loved, and took pride in trying to make others feel that way, and so it was with great delight that Peter noticed a young girl walking toward him from the same direction his other recent friends had come from.
She was a few years older than Peter and had dark hair in wavy curls that brushed along the back of her neck. Her smile was wide and bright, like an angel would smile. She reminded Peter of his mother, and it made him shed a tear as he wondered where his mother was.
But the young girl saw his trembling chin and red eyes and when she arrived, she kneeled down and delicately wiped the tears from little Peter's face. "Shhh," she soothed, "What's your name?"
Trying to hold back a flood of tears, Peter's chin quivered when he told her his name, but once he spoke he sobbed and the tears flowed freely.
"There, there," she ran her fingers across his head, trying to comfort him. "What's the matter, Peter?"
The fact that he was forced to form the words choked him up and his tears doubled in force, cutting him off.
"It's okay, dear heart. Shhh... You don't need to cry. You can tell me what's the matter."
"I miss my mother," Peter was finally able to say. "...and my father... and I don't know where I am."
"It's all right. We're together now. I don't exactly know where we are either, but I'm sure we can find your parents." She pulled Peter close to her, embracing him, soothing him as best she could.
He let it all out, crying until he could suppress it. He pulled away from her, sat up, and wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve.
"I don't know where we are. I think this is a nightmare."
"What makes you say that?"
"I was sleeping before. And now I'm here. And it was fun for a while. But I want to wake up and be home."
"Well, why don't we see if there's a way we can wake up? I'd very much like to be home, too."
Peter nodded his head to the girl. She stood and offered him her hand, to help him up. He accepted it. All he could think of was how wonderful her soft, cool hands felt pressed against his skin, comforting somehow, like holding his mothers hand.
"What's your name," he asked the girl leading him toward the edge of the park.
"My name is Wendy," she said.
"I'm sorry I cried like that, Wendy."
"You don't ever have to be sorry about missing your family, Peter."
They walked and walked for what felt like miles, until they arrived at a stony precipice that looked down hundreds of feet into a into a deep ravine. A chill ran up Peter's spine.
"What do you think?" Wendy asked him.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, let's do it."
"Do what?"
"Don't you love the feeling of falling in dreams, knowing you'll be safe when you hit the ground?"
Peter wasn't sure what to think when she closed her eyes and took a step closer to the edge, but the overwhelming sensation that he had nothing to lose washed over him and he followed her lead.
"One," she counted down. "Two."
There was a long, terribly pause before she said, "Three."
But neither hesitated to leap off the cliff.
The wind sailed through their air and the fell and fell and fell. And the rush they felt was exactly the same as when you fall in a dream. It's disconcerting but wonderful all at the same time. But instead of hitting the ground at the bottom of the ravine in a horrible splat, they continued flying through the air as though it were as natural as walking or breathing.
Still led by Wendy and her hand, Peter soared back to the top of the ravine, hovering over it's middle.
"That didn't wake us up, did it?"
"No, but it was fun, wasn't it?"
"Let's do it again!"
And they zoomed around in the air like birds in spring. More than a few times they came down to the water below and flew over it, reaching down into it, skimming the surface with their hands.
The whole time, they never let go of each other.
After a time, they flew back up to the top of the precipice and sat down, looking over the edge. This filled Peter with an anxiety. Each of his playmates had been taken from him after their playtime and he didn't want to lose Wendy to the voice and he told her so.
"I'll be right here," she assured him.
She began to sing him a lullaby, very similar to the one his mother used to sing to him and he curled up next her with his head in her lap. Her voice was so relaxing to him that he drifted off into a fitful sleep.
But when he awoke once more, she was gone.
Panic struck him.
Where could she have gone? Did she wake up from the dream? Was that even possible?
The thing that Peter hated the most was that he wasn't able to say goodbye to her, that he couldn't tell her how much he appreciated her comfort. If he was going to be here, he thought, and have to have to walk with these other lost children, the least he could do is make them feel not so lonely on their way.
He resolved then and there to make sure that every lost boy and girl who crossed his path would be met with as much comfort and fun and love as he could muster until he could find a way out of this dream and back into the loving arms of his parents.
And that was what he did.
Hundreds of children arrived at the park through hundreds of sleepless days and Peter made sure that every young boy or girl left to the other side with a hug and the knowledge that even though they didn't have very much time, they were loved, cared for, and wanted. There was nothing more sad, in his mind, than someone leaving his presence without feeling important and cherished.
But soon this burden grew too much for young Peter.
Where was his comfort?
The feeling that he had worked so hard to prevent in all the other children soon began to eat away at him and he spent much of his free time building up the courage to finally ask the voice what his purpose was. Why was he left here? Did no one want him after all?
"Perhaps my parents wanted to leave me here," he told himself. And that thought made him cry. What did he do wrong? What could he have done to deserve such abandonment?
The gears in his mind worked overtime trying to understand why he was so unwanted by everyone. Every time another child would come through his park (and he had begun to think of it as his, since he was the only constant there) he would shower them with all the attention and affection to feel warm and loved, but it would never be enough for them to stay with him. The voice would always call them away and they would always leave Peter, alone and discarded.
And it made him cry.
There is nothing sadder than a child (or anyone) crying because no one wants them.
One day, after a long hard day of showing a wonderful time and an unheard of amount of care to a little boy named James, the voice once more called away Peter's playmate.
"Won't you stay here with me, James?" Peter asked as he latched onto him with both arms, hoping that his new friend would show him the same respect given him.
"He cannot stay, Peter," the voice replied for James.
"I'd like to," James offered, "but I guess I really have to go."
James started off on his walk beyond, leaving Peter alone and unwanted once more.
"Why can't he stay?" Peter asked through bitter tears.
"Because it is his time to go."
"When is it my time?"
"That's not up to me, Peter."
"I want to leave here."
"Is that what you want?"
"Yes! I want to go back home. I want to wake up, I want to grow up and be a normal kid! I want someone to love me..."
The voice made no reply.
"Can I?" Peter asked.
But still no reply came. And Peter was even more alone and left feeling twice as unwanted and rejected as before.
And that's when he got up, smudged the hot tears away from his eyes and moved forward in the same direction James and John and Michael had left him for. He walked with a fire and determination that was out of character for so gentle a boy. He practically marched. And soon the march wasn't enough and he galloped, hoping to come to the end of this place and somewhere he could be with people who loved him again. Perhaps he could find someone to replace his parents since they obviously didn't want him anymore.
Further and further he went until finally he came upon something he'd never seen before in all of his time there. It was a house, much like his own house, the one he lived in before all this. In the front was a mighty tree very similar to the one his father had put the swing in.
Peter's heart grew faint. Could this have been his house?
He doubted it. Nothing in his dream (which is what he came to think of it as) ever turned out to be what it seemed. But at the same time, his mind was spinning with the possibilities.
He raced to the front door of the imposing house and knocked heavily on the door, hoping someone, anyone was home. He was prepared to ask the inhabitants to take him, they didn't need to do much, just love him. That's all he needed. That's all any child needed: to be loved.
The door creaked open and a woman opened the door, a woman ten years older than his mother was, at least. But when he smiled his beautiful smile, happy that an adult was here, happy that they might have answers, happy that they might be convinced to love him, the woman shrieked.
"Peter?" She asked.
How did she know his name unless she knew him?
The door opened wider and Peter could see a figure on an arm-chair through the banister. Soft yellow light poured in and the man sitting in the chair looked up and it was unmistakably Peter's father. He looked up from his paper at the mention of Peter's name to see his little boy, back to normal; happy and smiling like the sweet, bright boy he was because for the first time in ages Peter no longer he felt he was living in a nightmare.
He stood and adjusted his glasses to be sure the sight before him was no illusion. And looking into the face of that beautiful, little boy, that he cherished more than anything else in the world, he knew finally that he was in heaven.
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