In my dream, I carry Mama through the forest. Her body is clung to the curve of my
back, slender arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders. Her skin is sickly pale, stretched
thin across creaking bones, and she jitters unnaturally as we move. Aggressively gathered on
the palm of her hands are liver spots, mottled into the wrinkled creases of her skin. They
stretch up her arms and neck, and disappear beneath white wisps of hair. When we first begin
walking, her weight is unburdening to me.
     She sighs in rhythm with my footsteps, each crackling twig and leaf in harmony as
her abdomen releases struggling breaths from within. They warm the back of my neck, even
in the deep cold of these woods. I surmise it must be winter, a slick of frost glistening around
the thick trunks of bustling pines. My breath spills through my lips in a cloud.
     It is always dusk, when we walk through the forest. No matter how long we walk,
always dusk, always the same colourless sky. There is very little colour in the forest, too. The
trees are so deeply green they are almost black, in the dim light, and the ground is Earthy
brown beneath us. It never changes. The birds never sing, the sun never rises or sets. We are
always alone.
     It is difficult to know just how long we have been there. My feet are already sore when
we begin, mud soaked and bruised, yet never do we stop. If we do, the dirt begins to swallow
us, turning my feet to roots and planting me within the Earth. Its muddy hands coil as veins
around our bodies, and pine needles rupture from bulbing flesh. We must always move. My
feet are, each time, numb by the moment I awake.
     This dream begins much the same. The clouds gathered above us are grey and dull,
and the trees are once more swaying quietly, glistening softly. Only a few metres in front of
us can we see, before the pines, tall as they are, shrink within the shadows. They hide silently,
their branches spindling into the faint light, like arms outstretched from a body we cannot
see. Yet even hidden in the dull fog of dusk, their sharpness roams stronger than the gristle of
mud from which they burst.
     Mama mutters to herself as I walk, as she sometimes does. The words are never
coherent, thoughtless murmurings from lips that still hold onto memories her mind no

longer knows. I do not answer, and instead continue to trudge through the growing thicket of
trees, as they wheel slowly by. Soon, her murmurings fall silent again.
     Minutes stretch into hours, time warping through the unchanging expanse, utterly
unmoving as it contorts. I blink, and in that moment, unlike any other, the world around us
becomes darker. The grey sky burns black, and the glow of a pinpricked moon spills through
the branches, its slanting rays slicing the gloom which gathers upon the woodland’s Earth.

The light is dappled in the shadows of winter’s remaining leaves, decaying and dead in this,
our coldest night. How long has it been this way? In these woods, I have never before seen
the dusk through.
     In such darkness, I find myself moving faster, as any thought of retreat flits hopelessly
away. I think, perhaps, should I want to retreat, that I could not. We are, in our entirety, at
the will of the woods.
     I glide swiftly with the changing night, as Mama trembles terribly from the cold. How
weak she is, feeble thing clung to this aching spine. The toll is being taken, at last. I should
have known this would come.
     With this growing night come new evolutions to our dreary landscape, in the form of
a hooting owl. She swoops low, seeking us out, and I quickly flee, afraid of what horror she
might bestow. Mama wriggles fitfully when I do so, snaking her arms tighter as we, ourselves,
swoop between the thistles. The bird does not persevere further, and instead ducks her beak
in the wide roots of a fallen pine. Flesh tears, cries sound, and she reemerges with
bloodsoaked breast. In her mouth, a mouse. I watch its stomach expand and collapse. Poor
thing. The owl flies away with a muffled shriek. Above us, its babies squark happily.
     When, again, it is safe to move, I must tear myself away from the Earth, for the roots
have begun to curl around, their web of white veins stretching across my own, pale flesh.
They wither away when ripped from the nourishing blood of my body, leaving buds of red
across my ankles, and strands of wilted stems scattered across the soil.
     I move with haste, as the sky opens above us, the dusty fog of clouds dispersing to
uncloak dotted stars which flourish the night sky. Mama and I, we both look up to see, for in
this dream, never have we seen such beauty. There must be thousands above us, blinking eyes
gazing upon our forest.
     Still, I continue on, knowing not where we are going, but allowing our bodies to be
swept along the path of the wind. It hums gently alongside us. Before long, a sound bubbles
away through the expanse, luring us both towards this new objective. We follow the song,
and Mama lifts her head from the crook of my neck, to seek out what I, too, hope dearly to
find. She mutters again, roused indefinitely, and hums her own tune alongside. Before long, it
becomes clear to me that we are seeking out a stream, some fresh body of water trickling its
way through the night. She doesn’t stop singing with it, mimicking its pittering waves as her
lullaby is etched into the deepest corners of my mind.
     Between each tree, the gaps widen, and the woods yawn open, leaving a clearing
before us. By now, the stream is sputtering heartily, and reveals itself to us, shining silver, on
the farthest side. We shuffle into the glade, where the moon has nestled itself comfortably
above us, and now shines down brilliantly, uninterrupted by quaking pine. The crisp, woody

smell of the pine trees blends itself with ripe daffodils, whose yellow flowers bud brightly by
the water’s edge, their faces open and beaming.
     The last few steps are woeful, cumbersome from the night’s long trek. When we reach
the stream, I am certain I cannot go on, and unfurl Mama from my back. She, herself,
staggers a little, before finding her balance. When she turns to face me, she takes my cheek in
her palm, her eyes glassy and brimming. Ever gentle is her smile. Then, she begins to walk
away, her steps careful and light. I try to follow, but my feet have already rooted themselves
within the Earth. She paces on, dipping her feet within the stream, and willowing in the fresh
water. She looks to me again, and speaks with mild tongue, the first words she had said in so
long a time.

​

I will meet you here.
When, too, your time comes,
And the world catches up to you,
I will meet you here,
Beside the daffodils.

​

     I wake up in my bed. It is the middle of the night, and the moon is billowing through
the curtains. The phone is ringing loudly.
     With unease, I answer, and glance outside the window.
     Out in the garden, the daffodils have bloomed.