For eight years I dreamed of fire. Trees ignited as I passed them; oceansburned. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose. Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake. The sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams; the two were as different as Carolina and Indian jasmine, separation and attachment. They could not be confused.	Standing in the middle of the room, I located the source of the fire. A neat row of wooden matches lined the foot of the bed. They ignited, one after the next, a glowing picket fence across the piped edging. Watching them light, I felt a terror unequal to the size of the flickering flames, and for a paralyzing moment I was ten years old again, desperate and hopeful in a way I had never been before and never would be again.	But the bare synthetic mattress did not ignite like the thistle had in late October. It smoldered, and then the fire went out.	It was my eighteenth birthday.
Vanessa Diffenbaugh, The Language of Flowers
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