I built a dream of mansions,
Of formal gardens grand,
Of terraces and parties
And music by a band.

But in the days of waiting
Since that time long ago,
Those dreams, my dear, have vanished
And I have come to know,

They all were built of tinsel,
Oh vain and foolish past!
For in your arms I'm happy,
Since you are home at last.

—Dreams, a poem folded within the pages of my mother's diary. Written by Sayda Grey Richardson.