For eight years I dreamed of fire.
Trees ignited as I passed them; oceans burned.
The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose.
Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake.
The sharp chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams.
the two were as different as Carolina and Indian jasmine, separation and attachment.
They could not be confused.
I felt terror unequal to the size of the flickering flames, and for a paralyzing moment I was ten years old again, desperate and hopeful in a way I had never been before and would never be again.