My mother tells me her dreams are often in black and white, perhaps because she grew up before Technicolor. But I can’t imagine mine without color. My recurring dream of the red tree just wouldn’t be the same in black and white.

In my dream, I am walking across a field, a cloud-strewn sky above me. I am walking with purpose, as if my legs know where I am going and why, but I really don’t know where or why I’m going. I also never reach the tree. Funny. But I guess that’s how dreams are—you just don’t question reality in them.

The most memorable part of my dream is the red tree. Its leaves have turned color and litter the ground at its roots. The tree stands in the horizon, its branches beckoning to me. As I look at the tree, I feel ineffably sad, but I don’t know why. It’s not a gloomy or sad feeling, but a bittersweet feeling. Trees have always had that power over me, especially during fall. Again, I can’t explain it; it’s just how I feel. And dreams are just like that, hard to explain with words.