Chapter 13: The Circular Snow Disc

"Chapter 13. Abba Baba kept his circular snow disc on in the garage, and whenever everyone else went to sleep he would wander downstairs, and go past the red brick walls, and under the door, sit on his sled, cross-legged, and he was able to travel anywhere in the universe, through space and time, all humming and vibrating in no-time, just existing through thought and astral travel. "

Chapter 13: The Circular Snow Disc

Abba Baba kept his circular snow disc leaned up behind the old rake, tucked in the corner of the garage where the concrete was cracked and moss tried to grow. No one thought much of it—it was just a kid’s plastic sled, white with a red handle, slightly warped from one too many runs down a gravel-dusted hill. But Abba Baba knew better.

When the house was quiet—TV off, parents asleep, the rhythmic snore of the old dog vibrating the floorboards—he would rise from bed with the precision of moonlight, soft and silent. The hallway creaked, but only once. He knew the step to skip. Downstairs, past the worn green carpet, past the red brick walls that still held the scent of motor oil and rainwater, he’d slip into the garage barefoot.

The door never seemed to need opening. It just let him through.

He would settle on the disc, cross-legged, spine straight like he was meditating, but not quite. No candles. No chants. No herbs or crystals. Just breath. Just stillness. Just the soft hum that lived in the bones of the sled. And then—without a sound or spark—he’d lift.

Not up in the air, not like flying.

He was nowhere, and everywhere. The hum of the disc became a pulse that folded the walls in like paper. He would slide through dimensions, his thoughts painting the path forward—no propulsion needed, just pure intent. Past Saturn’s icy rings and the soft-breathing caves of Europa. Past time, into childhoods and elderhoods he’d never lived but somehow knew. Into dreams that weren’t his and memories that hadn’t yet happened.

There were universes made of honey and dust. Star systems with no gravity but endless song. Realms where colors spoke and shadows danced like old friends. Sometimes he met others like him—beings of light and laughter, children of the hum, travelers of the spiral. They never said much. They didn’t need to. They just were.

He never stayed too long. Just long enough to remember.

And when he returned—always gently, always just before the furnace kicked on—he would brush the dust from his pajama pants, press his hands together like prayer, and whisper, “Thank you.”

Then he'd walk upstairs as if nothing happened. Back under the covers. Back into the dream.

But the garage knew.
The disc remembered.
And the stars waited.