Mother stooped before me in our hut, collecting up the tin plates and pothooks I had scattered on the floor. Her shoulders tensed as she spoke. “I dreamt of the takmakas again last night. Dreams often come to me of the Sakiai.”
Nightmares had wracked my mother for weeks. She still set great store by the old ways, to the superstitions and the wives’ tales. To my mother every action bore a hidden meaning, a second consequence to be understood. The way the goats gave milk or how wood burned on the fire foretold some action yet to come, especially misfortunes that may befall us.
In the silence between us I listened to the hearth’s hiss. I turned to look upon my mother, choosing my words cautiously. “Was it the same dream?”
“Yes. I am forever dreaming of it now.”
I sank back on the chair, l
