I dreamt of a pink dress last night.
It wasn’t a pale pink dress. No. It was a vibrant, strong, bright, beautiful pink dress. I know that it was pink because everything around it was black and white and gray.
The dress wasn’t on anyone. It wasn’t worn on a person walking down a street, on a beach, sitting in a chair, in an opera or in a cafe. It was being held and passed between two people, me being one of them. The other person, I’m not sure.
I don’t really think that the dress was a bridal dress but I can’t be sure. I don’t think it was fluffy like tulle but I don’t think it was limp either. I don’t think it was old but not particularly new either. I didn’t get the sense that it had been previously owned or passed down generations either, but I just don’t know.
The problem is that I don’t know.
I woke up crying in the middle of the night because this dream was so poignant, so precious and because I wanted to hang on to it so badly yet, when I woke, all I remembered about it was the pink dress.
It has haunted me all day, that certain shade of pink, stark against the dull of the black and white background. I want to remember more, who was in the house and why it was being passed back and forth. Particularly who. I hope – long – to dream the same dream again tonight so that I can remember, so that I can have the chance to remember again.
Perhaps I will again dream of pink tonight.