Excerpt from Ty Moore's short story, "Awake"
'“After we got word we went into the barn where the kitchen was, and we made cookies which I have loved ever since coming to this country, and I told stories about my mother before the bus came. And when we got on the bus we gave cookies to the passengers, and giving these gifts was like giving away parts of our grief, for with each gift our burden was lightened. I think it was the inspiration of my mother who learned of you through your generosity.”
I am taken by this story, and find it difficult to carry my part. I have never felt so generous. I am inspired to be that person, however, and I listen, taking mental notes as the dream goes on.
“Why is the kitchen in the barn?” I ask, and we laugh into our pillows so as not to disturb the room.
“I do not know,” he says. “I am still amazed by the cookies.”
He says more, in each phase of the dream giving me credit for being someone I have never actually been, and I realize how important these dreams are. I can think of no better way to know myself than through understanding the way others see me. I vow to never stop coming here. Whatever I must suffer through in the days before I return, I accept it in exchange for this. I press my visitor’s hand between my hands and let the dream unfold. I interrupt him little, making minimal effort on my part of the exchange, but he seems fine with it.
The light changes as dawn approaches and he pulls away to leave, but I stop him, and kiss his forehead lightly. With one hand his fingers trail lightly down my face, gently drawing my eyes closed, brushing over the contour of my nose and lips, lifting from my chin as he goes. I watch him fade through the doorway and disappear, then I lie on my back, staring into the dark ceiling, and imagine.'
I am taken by this story, and find it difficult to carry my part. I have never felt so generous. I am inspired to be that person, however, and I listen, taking mental notes as the dream goes on.
“Why is the kitchen in the barn?” I ask, and we laugh into our pillows so as not to disturb the room.
“I do not know,” he says. “I am still amazed by the cookies.”
He says more, in each phase of the dream giving me credit for being someone I have never actually been, and I realize how important these dreams are. I can think of no better way to know myself than through understanding the way others see me. I vow to never stop coming here. Whatever I must suffer through in the days before I return, I accept it in exchange for this. I press my visitor’s hand between my hands and let the dream unfold. I interrupt him little, making minimal effort on my part of the exchange, but he seems fine with it.
The light changes as dawn approaches and he pulls away to leave, but I stop him, and kiss his forehead lightly. With one hand his fingers trail lightly down my face, gently drawing my eyes closed, brushing over the contour of my nose and lips, lifting from my chin as he goes. I watch him fade through the doorway and disappear, then I lie on my back, staring into the dark ceiling, and imagine.'
