The Centre for Dream Research and Imaginal Studies

The Death of Dreams
© Claire Paulette Turcotte

I fear the death of dreams.
I ask one question after another trying to keep them alive.

You tell me we are not lost,
that we belong to Mother Earth,
we belong to our children, and our grandchildren.
That we belong to our Ancestors.

You tell me how in the old days you were never hungry,
How at mealtime you went down to the sea and dug oysters,
and ate them raw.

You tell me how the fish were so plentiful when you were a boy
that you could stand in the stream and wait for one to swim into your hand,

You tell me how you rubbed its belly with your fingertips
and then flipped it up onto the bank,
with one hand.

Though, I confess, I will never understand your fondness for oolichan oil
which, you tell me, goes for $300 a gallon
or is given freely at Potlatch,

I fear the death of your dreams.
And that you will be left
wandering in someone else’s,

all of which implies
I know something. I don’t.
And trust me on this,

I am the first one to reach for a canopener and a can
of Cloverdale, Wild Pacific Sockeye,

And I think to myself, given the fragility of dreams,
why shouldn’t we all just turn up the volume, and join
The Quest For Everything.