A dream of living in the mountains haunts me, like a cold silver spoon pressed against a bare belly, I cannot escape it. When I try to fall asleep at night, the same story flutters across my eyelids: There I am, wandering through a field of wild flowers as if there is a skipping rope beneath me. I have no sleeves on my blouse, no worries, no sorrow, only the sun bouncing between the mountain and my shadow. It is a home for the rabbits and the long-legged deer. It is a home for me and all of those living things that I love.