I am never so awake as to be able to shake my dreams. Faceless people dance like puppets, fresh in my memory, and as fresh as if this were a true recollection. But there is something different now, something cold about the world that makes it hard to differentiate between the two. There are no dream catchers anymore, something my mother would gape at. My grandmother would sit down and start weaving one together. But I don’t know the craft, and even if I did, there’s never time to create something like this here. I hesitate to say something “so unnecessary” and yet that sour phrase lingers at the back of my throat. It fights for validity here in this dark world and more and more, and I still admonish the thought. I also partially distinguish it because I don’t know the craft.
I sit there whittling a fork into the end of a long piece of ash wood. I think back quickly to my grandmother, sitting at her kitchen table, weaving her dream catchers into intricate circular webs. “We can be the spiders of dreams and nightmares, if we wish. It just takes a little determination and a touch of simply wanting it to be. How I weave the catcher doesn’t much matter, as long as I wish it to protect me.”
There’s the memory I needed. That small piece of lecture from her, staring at her craft while she wove it, looking up at me here and there, eye contact against her frayed oak table. “How I weave the catcher doesn’t much matter, as long as I wish it to protect me.”
The thought of creating this thing now doesn’t seem so far away. But I still don’t know anything of the craft, which bothers me; any piece I create will not do her memory justice. And to sit down and take the time to frustrate myself while I attempt at some remnant of her glorious talent— this idea mocks me. I have so much to worry about here, without the worry of a catcher. Food. Food is always on my mind. I laugh. The waking dreams will have to wait for now.