In a loft, sitting up in a tall bed piled with quilts, Alenia and I are watching a movie that starts out like a combination of The Princess Bride and The Neverending Story but gets more Dark Crystal-y as we watch until it is live action and a battle scene.  They are burning down a village and a statue of the protagonist’s god is surrounded by flames.  “They won’t kill him, will they?” she asks.  I tell her, “No.  They can’t kill it with fire.” and I struggle to remember what it is that won’t burn.  I run through the lyrics of Gentle Groove and God is Alive/Magic is Afoot combining desire and faith and the illusion of death but i don’t come up with the phrase I am looking for. Alenia watches me try to figure this out and says it’s ok, she’s happy just to know magic lives.
Outside on a sunny sidewalk.  Classmates are talking, waking themselves up before a field trip.  But at the corner of a parking lot, against a painted brick building, I see someone getting ready to throw out fabric.  I run over and tell them to stop. Please! It’s my grandmother’s.  I run my hands over the fibers, bring them to my face.  I choose the ones I know belonged to her through touch and smell.  My mom and stepdad show up to take me home.  I tell them I want to stay, but I need to keep this fabric.  My stepdad has already bundled them up, taped them into tight, light rolls he can toss into the car.  I thank them over and over.  I need to make quilts and sheets.  One of them is flannel and I’m sad to part with it even for a day.
I show up to work at a small dark convenience store.  The manager asks me for a bag of ice.  I think it’s strange but I go to the chest and pull out a 10 lb bag of ice.  As i’m pulling it out, i see a hand reach out from underneath.  I pull the layers of ice bags off of the body and Alenia climbs out like it was no big deal.  I don’t know what to say.  “Why?” I ask.  She says she wanted to surprise me when I came into work.  I think about all the time spent going through my grandmother’s fabric and talking to my parents. “But I’m late,” I tell her.  “How long have you been in there?”  She shrugs, “About 4 hours.” I don’t understand why she couldn’t just stop by and say hello.  Isn’t her skin burning with cold? She just walks away.

Waking up I remember the line I was searching for: “Manuscripts don’t burn.”