Well Worn Creases
Motherhood and millenia.
The Fuchsia Witch is a series of stories woven from life and a little magic. There’s no need to read in order; step in anywhere and you’ll find your way. But if you’d like a proper introduction to the witch, you’ll find one here.
The witch’s mother is coming to stay for some time. Once, they shared many lifetimes of interwoven lives. Now, soft miles stretch between them, until they again enter each other’s homes. Then time and space fold upon each other, an origami wormhole of well worn creases, bringing them closer than they have been since the witch was a child.
To prepare, the witch plans meals to nourish them all, stocks beans and vegetables, ferments sourdough, and blends oil and herbs into a pesto. This is her love language, feeding others, sometimes to the detriment of the other things that make a person feel welcome in her home. She forgets to mop the floor or put all the scattered shoes away, and only belatedly thinks to open the doors, clear the stale air, and invite the wind inside, letting it carry away the chaos of daily lives and welcome in their visitor.
The two year old’s nap time has come and gone, but today he camps by the window (mama, come!) and so does the witch, watching for the car that will bring his grandmother. She comes with hair in a halo of sunlight and hugs that feel for her daughter’s wellness. Questing eyes and hands ask where it hurts, a time traveled urge to kiss it better. The little one is suddenly too shy for a hug, but not too shy to show her his toys. This is how they begin to know each other again; with cars and trucks, a new soft puppy plushie, showing off his shoes (still on the floor), and, chattering foundation to it all, his unselfconscious new ability to carry on a conversation. When his brothers wake with hungry cries, he tugs her hand to show them off, too. The witch is achingly proud of him sharing this woman he’s remembered he loves.
In the morning, the witch sleeps in and is not woken by little ones. She steps through a quiet house while they adventure without her. She curls in her husband’s arms alone, not sharing with any of her children. And her mother feeds the babies and washes the dishes. She whispers stories to the twins, about two little boys who go on nighttime adventures while their family sleeps. They dream about riding the backs of the cat and the dog through the night, climbing mountains to the moon, communing with stars. Her words are a spell that will linger long after she goes home. She holds the toddler during every meal because he so sweetly wants his grandmother’s lap. The memory of her arms will still be familiar when the miles have stretched between them and he becomes shy again.
A day and a night and a day pass. The visit is halfway done, and everyone begins to feel the impermanence of their time. And then a fever slips in, and the witch is again called to hold space for another.
The toddler tosses and turns in the night. He calls out for daddy and then for mama in turn, he cries and falls still and cries again. He is not so sick as to scare anyone, but is little enough to have no context for the way he feels; hot and cold, achy and wanting, so very tired. He wants to play. He wants to eat. He wants to want. Instead he declines his toys, listens halfheartedly to his books, picks at food, water, juice. He curls into a trusting sleep in his parents’ arms, each in turn. They transmit nourishment skin to skin, love giving whatever it can, and his little body runs on that.
And around them, the house continues to quietly hum. Something smells yummy. The babies cry and are fed, and food appears for the grownups, too. Laundry is done: washed, dried and folded. Diapers are changed. They hold and are held, love and are loved. The daily rituals of life continue, as they always do.
The last of the laundry is folded, the fridge stocked with leftovers. Bags are packed and the guest bed stripped of sheets. The witch’s mother brings her suitcase to the door, watched by tired eyes. For a few more moments, hugs are exchanged, hands check again that all is well, lips press against a hot forehead. An almost-memory floats among them, of umbilical cords and shared bodies: the echo of millennia.
The witch and the two year old step outside to wave goodbye. The car drives away.
A collective exhale. The latch on the front door clicks into place, sounding the end of the visit. The witch leans her weight against the door and surveys her home. When did the shoes get put away? She adjusts the weight of her son in her arms and a hot little sigh blows across her face. The witch clears her throat. Swallows. She eyes fever-pink cheeks suspiciously.
Clears her throat again. Was that…?
Is she feeling…?
Ahem.
Yes. There it is.
A tickle.
Reading chronologically? Click for the previous post or the next one.
Curious about the witch’s spells and recipes? You can find them in her grimoire.
The tickled throat ending is perfect.
So beautiful. Magic can happen when memories and new experiences weave together, smells and sounds familiar and on the fringes of knowing, while living new times together. Generational visits can be so magical, like this one. I imagine the little boy knows somehow that this person, this visitor, is special somehow, even if not knowing "grandmother". Sending love and wellness waves to the boy-child, the seer, the bear cub, the witch with the tickled throat, and papa bear.