Last night in my dream my mother had become small, the size of a large baby. Her limbs were curled in and her body hunched so it resembled a beetle. She was being kept in a little shack on a stone pier. My sister and I took turns holding her, comforting her. The young women taking care of her and the inventory in the shack tried to get me to initial things in metallic markers: a crate of antique toys in gold, a bag of yarn in copper. I refused.
My sister looked at me and said "I don't want to be here." I said the same to her. Then our car, parked on the stone pier, decided it didn't want to be there either, and it rolled into the water.
I spent the rest of my dream battling with water, trying to release a cardboard box of snakes and small mammals which had been buried on a crowded beach.
I woke up exhausted.