I had a dream about you. You were being hunted by a wolf. I followed its tracks in the snow and found you hiding out in the top of a sycamore tree, the wolf loping about the base beneath your feet. I climbed the tree and tried to comfort you, helped you down. We ran hand in hand to a cabin, locking the door behind us, just in time.
The cabin was completely empty - just one long, barren hallway. My bare feet were cold against the wooden planks of the floor. Through the window, we could see the wolf pacing back and forth across a snow bank. We knew we couldn't stay there for long. We knew that, eventually, we would have to make a run for it.
Carefully, you lifted the bar from across the door, slowly pushed it open. I could see a patch of snow on the ground - pristine, blinding, white. A million sparkling diamonds.
Then I woke up.
You were gone. You had already left for work. The empty space in the bed still held the indentation of your body next to me. I reached out from beneath the covers with my pale hand and pressed into the empty space to see if it still held the warmth of your body, but the sheets where had had lain were cold as a desert, a vast empty space, a fresh bank of snow.
I withdrew my hand and retreated beneath the covers. I had not yet opened my eyes when a bubble of static burst from the alarm clock radio. Forty more killed in Iraq. On a lighter note, the White House was holding a state dinner for the Queen of England. Formal attire is optional, but those wearing medals and tiaras won't be considered overdressed. At her last event, Her Majesty was unable to reach the microphone; therefore, a miniature lectern has been specially created to accomodate the petite monarch.
This is how my day began, with death tolls and tiaras.
