It was a dream she’d been having off and on for . . . she wasn’t really sure how long. In the dream, she was at her grandmother’s house – in spite for the fact that her grandmother had passed on some years before. But no matter, there she was wandering through the house like a small child, the air filled with the smell of cooking – oatmeal bread, because for some reason grandmother always baked oatmeal bread on Saturday and she was sure it was Saturday – and the sound of her grandmother humming a tune she’d forgotten the name of years ago but still loved.
She walked through the living room, her fingers trailed over the lace covering the arm of the couch, the textures of it against her fingers coming with an almost startling reality. She walked into what she thought was the back bedroom – her grandmother’s room – and marveled. Against one wall was a dresser. Across the top of it were candles and various statues.
Saints. Gods. Goddesses.
One in particular caught her eye, as it did every time she had this dream. She wasn’t sure if it were Egyptian or human or animal or what. Cautiously, she stepped over to the dresser. The candlelight gave the illusion of movement, of life to the statues. The longer she looked at the goddess, the more sure she was that the goddess was speaking to her. And she was. In her dream, the goddess spoke to her in the language of her heart: a tongue that she, sadly, still didn’t understand.
She woke with a start, her short red hair arranged in a tangle on top of her head. A sliver of late afternoon sun spilled in from between her curtains. The words of the goddess rang faintly in her ears like thunder in distant skies.