I put down my book, more interested in sleep than reading and knowing what happened next in the story. With the bedside lamp turned off, I snuggled into my favorite sleep position. A thin stripe of yard light shone though the bedroom windows onto the wall nearest the bed. The alarm clock on the bureau slowly ticked, measuring out the seconds and minutes.

The last thing I remembered was squirming to adjust the pillow under my head and the angle of my hips. Suddenly I found myself in a dream world with Arnie, my late husband and my two daughters when they were in fourth and eighth grade. We were so busy going places that I had trouble completing a satisfying conversation with Arnie. At the social functions we were attending, all of us were with friends, separate from each other.

Each time I spotted Arnie in the crowd, I felt a burst of affection. It was like the crowd was in monochrome black and white with Arnie being the only one in full color. I wanted to shout, “I love you. I miss talking with you. Do you still love me?”

Gray, early dawn was peeking into my bedroom windows when I awoke. Rolling onto my back, I glanced around at my deeply shadowed bedroom and drifted on clouds with angels, feeling peaceful and worry-free.

As I fully awakened, I remembered the bursts of affection that I felt in my dream whenever I saw Arnie. I wondered about the difficulty in having a conversation with him, rationalizing that it made sense because since he died, all my conversations with him have been unsatisfactorily one sided.

The burst of affection that I felt whenever I saw Arnie in my dream has stayed with me. The man I called my husband for 37 years, is still my love.