Then, right after I woke from the dream, I went into the kitchen of this little house where I am living for a week to write about my mother. Or, more precisely, where I am rooting around and bouncing against walls as I try to write about my mother. It has been slow going. I walk more than I write, and I read more than I walk, and there are bird calls and strange dreams and then: a dead mouse floating in a bowl of water in the kitchen sink. That is what I woke to, really.
What is there to say of strange dreams and floating dead mice? I'm not sure. I suppose it means even the smallest of beasts with the shortest of lives — those who sought sustenance (which is to say life), those who reached for their desires even when they shouldn't, those whose desires were sustenance (which is to say life) — leave little bodies behind.