By Michelle Allen
There are evenings when Dan and I find ourselves talking about the future — not the kind we’ll live to see, but the kind that will unfold long after we’ve slipped quietly into the stars. It’s a strange, beautiful thing to dream forward when you’re standing in the later chapters of your own story, but somehow it feels even more sacred now.
Maybe it’s because love softens the edges of time. Maybe it’s because finding each other again — after so many years, so many lifetimes lived apart — taught us that the universe is far more mysterious and generous than we ever imagined.
When we talk about the future, it isn’t for us. It’s for our children, our grandchildren, and the generations who will carry pieces of our hearts without ever knowing the full story of how we loved.
I imagine a world gentler than the one we inherited. A world where humanity finally remembers its own tenderness. A world where the earth is healed, where the sky is clear, where curiosity leads us outward instead of fear pushing us away.
Sometimes I picture two young souls — maybe our great‑grandchildren, maybe strangers we’ll never meet — standing beneath a sky full of unfamiliar stars on a world we only dreamed of reaching. I imagine them holding hands, feeling the same wonder Dan and I feel when we talk about what could be.
And in that moment, I hope they feel us. Not as ghosts, but as echoes — the quiet kind that linger in the bones of a family, in the choices we made, in the love we gave freely.
I know I won’t live long enough to witness the future I dream of. But loving Dan has taught me something important: some dreams don’t need our eyes — they just need our belief.
So we keep dreaming. We keep hoping. We keep planting seeds we may never see bloom.
Because love — real love — doesn’t end with us. It becomes the light that guides those who come after.
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