This dream was better than waking. I was slim. Looked beautiful in the ivory vintage silk dress Mama had worn herself. Stepping out of a two horse carriage festooned in thornless white roses. Flash of cameras. Walking down the aisle holding Papa's arm, relatives crammed in the church, sitting and standing, heads turned to watch the procession towards the altar.
I couldn't see the bridegroom's face for some reason, something often goes amiss in dreams, but I knew he must have been hadsome.
I woke at the sound of footsteps down the hall, heavy, slow, echoes reverbrating into my consciousness.
The nurse checked my security straps, I guessed they still wouldn't allow me to be free. Instead I had to lie down fastened to the bed for even longer.
I couldn't remember any details of my crime, convinced I was in there by human or computer error.
Wishing my parents would get me out, probably they were thwarted by red tape.
And why did my husband never visit?
This dream was better than waking.