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Alysson Troffer
- University of Nebraska Press
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625 Alysson Troffer (b. 1960) Born in Connecticut but currently living in Golden, Colorado, Troffer has worked for years in technical writing and editing. She has written for the Mercury, a newspaper based in Pottstown, Pennsylvania, and for the Inner Door, a publication of the Association for Holotropic Breathwork International. At present Troffer is writing her first book, about her experiences with Somatic Archaeology , an alternative, Native-influenced healing method that involves unearthing and healing the history in the body. Her great-grandfather Lemuel Occum Fielding served as tribal chief from 1903 to 1928. The following is published here for the first time. The Little Girl on the Hook Except for the last time I dreamed about the little girl, the dream always unfolds in the same way. I am in the basement, alone, heading toward the small closet with no door. It’s that time again, time for me to check on her body and make sure she is okay. I reach into the closet and pull the string dangling from the lightbulb to illuminate the cool, clean, dry space that is empty, except for the dead little girl hanging on the wall. I visually inspect her. I do not touch her in any way. The little girl is about four years old. She is motionless, hanging on a hook by the back of her short-sleeved dress. Trimmed with white lace, the dress is abloom with large pink and white flowers. Her arms and legs hang loosely, unrestrained, from her body. Her dark brown eyes are open partway, looking down, and her almost-black, wavy hair neatly frames her pretty, baby-soft face. In contrast to her pearl-white skin, her rosy cheeks are still aglow. I feel reassured, satisfied. She is indeed okay. I am adequately fulfilling my duty to take care of her, to keep her safe in this moisture-controlled and temperature-controlled space. Then I wake up. The dream lingers long enough for me to remember it, but there is no lasting emotional impact. I have vague unease about the dream. Concerned that others will suspect I’m emotionally disturbed, I 626 mohegan don’t tell anyone about it. After all, who in their right mind has dreams about dead little girls? The last time I dream about the dead little girl, my husband, Tim, is in the basement with me. I feel guilty because I almost forgot she was there and that I needed to check on her. Tim is there for some other purpose. I go to the closet, turn on the light, and begin my visual inspection. As expected, nothing else is stored in the closet except the girl’s body. I start by examining her face. A second later, her eyes slowly open wide. I step back from her and gasp. She isn’t dead! Her face remains expressionless, but she moves her eyes to look directly into mine. With my hand covering my pounding heart, I inch closer to her and look deeply into her eyes. As I move, her eyes follow mine. My fear is intense, but I am glad she is not dead. Intuitively, I know that she is a good little girl. She doesn’t mean to terrify me. It’s just that, all along, I thought she was dead! I call to my husband. “Tim! She’s not dead! Do you see her eyes move? Do you see that?!” He rushes over to me. He closely examines the little girl’s face and eyes. She looks at him, then returns her gaze toward me. Her head moves along with her gaze so that her face is directly across from mine. He shakes his head, doesn’t see her movement. “She still looks dead to me.” He walks away and returns to his original task. I am confused. Why can’t he see that she’s not dead? No matter. I know with certainty she’s not dead. I wake up as terrified as I felt in the dream. I don’t want to return to the dream, so I force myself to stay awake for a few minutes. Despite the intensity of my fear, this dream feels very important to me, like it has so much to say. If not for the six-week dream-reading workshop I had been attending at the time, I might have let this dream fade into insignificance. Instead, I asked for help from the workshop facilitator, Anne, and my...