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Only one year earlier, when I had a fever high enough to knock me half under, a dream had taken me back to the time she was still here — her hand on my head, her voice. When I woke I forced myself to forget.
But I missed her terribly.
I dreamed for four nights about us when we were little.
On the fourth morning I woke with tears crusted on my face. Sunshine stabbed the window.
In the dream she had closed her eyes and smiled, running a hand through my hair: "Be happy. Little Luna is the prettiest when she smiles." I buried my face in the pillow.
Thank God longing is silent.
