The Witch

An introduction may be required.

The Fuchsia Witch is a series of stories woven from life and a little magic.

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In a place not very far from here, in a house not so very different from this one, there lives a witch. Her skin is the color of roses, the kind that surprise you when you thought you planted red, or maybe white, but here the bush has bloomed an unrepentant fuchsia, and much thornier than you remembered it as a tiny thing at the nursery. Her hair is mixed metal spun into shining strands, reflecting the sun. Except sometimes, it’s a deep, rich loam in which anything might grow, and other times it’s made of clouds come down from the sky to wisp and wave in the wind she makes, as she shifts her gaze from one project to another. 

The bread rises on the counter and the laundry is running. The dog tries to play with the cat, and the cat plays with a ball of yarn trailing into a half-finished something. The witch plays ready, set, run run run with the two year old from room to room to room, riding along on his constant motion, and on the way picking up an infinite number of cars and trucks and balls. Who would have thought her son would have such cliched interests?— but here he is so quintessentially himself and she loves everything about him. He is not a witch, or a warlock or wizard or godling, or anything supernatural so far as she can tell; he is a boy, and a beautiful one, who might become anything. 

The twins, nearing five months, are different from him and from each other. The first one born, a little bear cub always ready to smile, charms everyone with shaggy fur and silly little silver claws. Someday he will be formidable. Four minutes later came the quiet one, the one who sees everything and has recently decided he loves the witch. His smiles are earned and precious, now that he’s decided being in this body is something he wants to smile about. They are as different as three younglings from one set of parents can be, but they all lean toward wonder, and in this the witch takes joy.

Their father is different again, stubbornly human and decidedly planted in this world. The witch loves him for the way he tethers her, keeping her attuned to the whole of their lives while she immerses herself in each new project. The way he can plan years ahead while she sees only to the next phase of the moon. And she loves him for the way he loves her: constantly, a background hum to everything they do, together and apart. For his relentless practicality and even his mansplaining, though this last is maybe sometimes more lovable than others. He doesn’t believe in magic except when he unexpectedly does, and so between the two of them they have woven an unusual spell made of the mundane and the fantastical.

Does it seem too good to be true? Then I would ask who taught you that joy must be tempered by suffering. Still, it is true that any good life, like any good spell, contains multitudes. Let’s get to know this witch, hmm?

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What color would you skin be, if it matched your personality?

Share your reflections in the comments or in the subscriber chat.

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Reading chronologically? Click for the next post.

Curious about the witch’s spells and recipes? You can find them in her grimoire.

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