Exile and a query to the cottonwoods in the backyard

Would she dream again of that alien house of her childhood, sealed like a spaceship with its white noise humming air conditioning as she drifted through the grey twilight of predawn, wrapped in an old yellow floral sheet for a kimono and of tucking her bare feet beneath her on the cool, soft sofa and fixing her eyes on some black and white precision feast of silver grains witnessing the hardships of postwar life?