I dreamt that I saw two women crossing the street close to my first home in Belgrade. It was at the intersection of Jovanova Street and Seventh of July Street, where a huge open market used to be while I was growing up. It was obvious that they were mother and daughter. The mother was in her late seventies, while the daughter was in her late forties. Their facial features were almost identical. They were the same height, too. Both of them had frizzy hair cropped and pulled back in the same fashion. The mother was completely gray, but the daughter dyed her hair reddish-brown. They even wore long, dark coats that looked almost identical. Now, the daughter led her mother by the hand. She kept holding onto her hand even after they crossed the street and entered the market. Senile dementia, I remember figuring out on the spot. The mother had a habit of wandering away in crowded places, and it was thus safer to hold her hand all the while. The daughter must be spending most of her time taking care of her demented mother, I remember thinking. In fact, the daughter’s life must be dedicated entire to her debilitated mother. I woke up soon after I lost sight of them in the market crowd. And I got annoyed with myself at once. How could I be coming up with the whole story about the two women on the basis of one little detail—hand holding? Perhaps the older woman had difficulties with her eyesight. Perhaps they were related in an entirely different way—aunt and niece, say. Perhaps they did not even live together. But I had no doubts about such things in my dream. In my dream, I knew everything.