Pumpkin Bread

It was with unbridled joy that I ate the slices of pumpkin bread, warmed and buttered, on a sleepless night at five-thirty am. Soon I fell to sleep and visions of the first place in which I had the delectable treat flew through my head. The people in the place in which pumpkin bread had been a staple of autumn lunches were the same sweet souls I remembered, and in this surreal environment I had a purpose. My body did not hurt and no worries plagued my mind. The happy scenes piled one upon another until I nearly believed them to be real. They were welcome diversions from the nightmares I have waded through each night over the past half year. For once, I did not wake up screaming or in a cold sweat, but rather to the pleasant sounds go my radio alarm. One hour of sleep could never be enough, yet I felt as if I had wings.

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