Between the dates of Oct27 and Nov5 2007

I had this dream, where I met [you] we held hands and smiled, and friends helped each other cross the streets. The light bulbs never burnt out, and the linen screen was never full. When we wanted lemonade it was in the refrigerator, and when our parents, aunts and uncles died, we cried, but didn't worry-there was always a shoulder and warm memories. Our bicycles never needed new tires, but were well used, and our leg muscles were strong, we walked one foot directly in front of the other. Every year the trees' colors were more vibrant than they shed previously and every speech we heard motivated us to dance. There was an escarpment we bordered on and over. We had seen it from the valley and leaned over it's edge; sometimes the wind let us float, and when a chill crept up, we shared jackets. No one had cameras and everyones mind suffered from the least clutter, and the photographs that our eyes took never betrayed or lied, they helped us evade trenches of nostalgia and pushed us on, always learning, scraping our knees, smelling like the sand we carried with us between our skin folds and in our hair. We didn't hold on, we bathed securely in hot springs, boiling in loyalty and trust.
The dream wasn't as convoluted as these words make it; it wasn't warm, it was to the sound of the dryer, in the fall, with leaves settled, resting on the window blocks of the row houses and trees that framed the view of the street below.