I’m dreaming of you again. In my dreams, I’m looking for the lamp, the one mother brought home when you were little. That day, we rubbed and rubbed it, and you plucked a golden buttercup from a field, placed it inside, and made a wish. You giggled as the blossom’s “blood” smeared onto your fingers. You dropped the lamp in this forest, the forest I wander nightly in my polka dot skirt, the skirt you said made me look like a princess. ”Princesses don’t wear polka dots,” I said, a week and two days before we buried you beneath a wreath of buttercups, my fingers smeared golden with blood.