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So the boy closed his eyes and floated among the rhythmic white noise of the waves. The water soothed him, and as he floated, he stretched out his arms and back, moved freely and easily, orienting and reorienting himself. Eventually he stopped moving and another dream came to mind. Another flying dream. Only in this dream, he floated. He stood on the front lawn of his house and leaned backwards and kicked his feet slowly up as if he were in the water, and they rose off the ground. He floated about six feet off the ground and oriented and reoriented himself. He can paddle toward a tree and feel the leaves and branches, then kick away back into a clear spot. Eventually he found himself back in the waves. 

“Why are you so comforting?” he asked again. 

“You know why.” 

“I do?” 

“It’s the simplest of metaphors. There was a time when you were protected from the world, floating. Sound was muffled. All your needs were cared for.” 

“When was that?” 

“In the womb.” 

“You’re saying you remind me of my mother?” 

“On the most primal level.” 

“My mother wasn’t always nice to me.” 

“People can be disappointing.” 

“You’re never disappointing.”