In my dreams, there are kettles. There are flowers in every room and the tissue boxes are always full. The blankets are warm and the air is cool.

Sometimes, in my dreams, it’s dark in a room where lights are supposed to be on. Sometimes it’s even darker than the night the power went out.

The storm was long gone when you came to my window with flashlights and said, “It’s just a little damp and not too dark.” You knew my fear of storms well. I clung to you as our lights guided us down the slippery sidewalks and saw us through the thin remnants of rain. “I know it’s late,” you said as we walked. “But I was thinking we could drive into town. The power’s back on there.” I nodded excitedly, desperately wanting to be surrounded by light again.

Your car was warm and the back seat held neatly folded blankets and sweatshirts you couldn’t leave your house without. It was so very much like you. You had the windows rolled down and I let my hand fall out, feeling the light rain and the chill of the early morning. You turned on some music while I was staring out and we playfully made fun of each other’s music taste.
You took my hand in yours while we were on the bridge into the city. All my love rose up to my heart and warmth coursed over my skin. We watched as the glow of the city came closer and the cars begin to trickle into the streets as people made their way to work. The world didn’t have time to fear the storm the way I did.

We ended up at the old park near the very edge of the lake. You liked to play football there on the weekends, and I liked to write there after school. Grabbing an armful of blankets after we got out, we wandered around, looking for a relatively dry area to lie down on.

“Here,” I spread out a grey blanket between two long, colorful flowerbeds. You slid down next to me and tucked the thicker blanket around us.

Before I rolled over to face you, something in the flowerbed caught my eye. Even in the sparse champagne glow of the early morning, its vibrant purple petals stood out against the others. I reached out and plucked it from the base of the stem. I placed it between us, with its beautiful cascading blooms covering nearly all of the stem. You propped yourself up on your elbow.

“Jacob’s Ladder,” I mused quietly.

“Huh?”

“It’s a Jacob’s Ladder flower,” I said louder. “Isn’t it just beautiful?”

You lowered your head down on the blanket, absentmindedly smoothing down stray tufts of chestnut locks. “It smells like your perfume.”

When I was a little girl, I had a book on the language of flowers. I looked from you to the flower, trying to remember its meaning, but it refused to come to my mind.

“There’s that look in your eye,” you pointed an accusing finger at me. “That’s what you look like when you think too much. I brought you out here to rest for a while.” You engulfed me in a loving embrace and brought me into your chest. “Just try and sleep for a bit.”

I fell into my dreams. There were candles and books. There was a small house with a large bed. There was a life, and there was work. There was day, and there was night. It was okay, I guess, but it was missing one very important thing: you.

Except for the nights. Between sliding under the blankets and closing my eyes, you are there with me. You are next to me, or in the room over, or sitting in the living room. You bring me a bouquet of Butterfly Weeds. I give you a Jacob’s Ladder.

Let me go.

Come down to me.

Then the real morning comes and I am alone in my bed. I am very cold. The power is still out. I know you are not there, but still, I reach out for you. I find only wrinkled covers. I curl into a ball and shut my eyes. I wish for sleep.

I need the dark, for your golden glow, your warm touch, your smile, your love, are only mine in my dreams.