I can still sense it sometimes; the dream, it was pink and it smelled like running out the door, past another load of laundry, the detergent scent wafting from the machine, someone’s borrowed my drying rack again, and someone else’s risotto is sizzling in that kitchen I don’t like, no windows, but the living room I loved, with the big white couch, a gathering couch, there where we’re all eating and laughing, friends that come in and out, we dance we sing, there are jam sessions and lemon-themed parties and red wine spilled and secret kisses, we’re rolling around until someone’s laundry is ready at 3 in the morning, the beeping sound hurts our ears and the coffee hurts my stomach, and the basilica’s bells ring and rebound and wake me up and I smell the laundry, the black hoodies billowing in the breeze that meet the saxophonist’s smooth sound from across the way, my eyes on the pink glow from the sunlight’s dance atop the red brick that I inhale and savor as I tilt my head to the sweet notes that walk me back to the land of the living.