Read Online Red is for Remembrance by Laurie Faria Stolarz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurie Faria Stolarz
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passed away. It's basically this big jumble of stuff-- spells, home remedies, favorite lines of poetry, and passed-down holiday recipes-- all written by people in my family before me, those who, like me, had the gift of insight.
I flip the book open to a spell written by Kayleigh, my great-great grandmother's first cousin, and then I set the tray down, spreading the supplies on it, and remove the wad of clay from the box.
"Is that some art project?" Janie asks.
"Not exactly."
"Wait," Janie says, capping her bottle of nail polish. "You're not doing that witch stuff in here, are you? I mean, it's bad enough that you do it at all."
81
"I practice magic," I say, lighting a stick of incense and setting it down in its holder. "The real kind, not the Charmed kind."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I use my magic in a positive way-- to gain insight, to help others. No one gets hurt and I don't desecrate gravesites-- that includes stealing their plot flowers."
She folds her arms and looks away, like the mere image of me and my spells will turn her to stone. "I just don't believe in that stuff."
"Well, whether you believe it or not, it exists."
"No, I mean, it's against my beliefs."
"Look." I sigh. "I'd do my spell outside, but it's thirty below-- at least it feels that way-- and there's really no place else." I run my makeshift pottery tools-- a plastic fork, a wooden spoon, and one-half of a broken CD cover-- through the incense smoke to charge them. Then I pluck my crystal cluster rock from my night table and grip it in my palm.
"I live here, too, you know," she snaps.
"Janie," I say, "it's not what you're thinking. You'd be surprised; we probably have a lot more in common than you think, belief-wise."
"I doubt it." She averts her gaze and fishes though her smiling-watermelon-sticker-covered purse for a cell phone. "I'm leaving," she huffs. She dials her way out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.
A major plus, especially since negativity like that is bound to screw up my spell. I let out a cleansing breath before taking the smoking incense and rotating it three times 82
over my spread of supplies, in an effort to clear the air and create a sacred space. The puffy gray smoke hovers over the area, filling the room with a lemongrass scent, reminding me right away of Jacob. I gaze down at the crystal in my hand, remembering how he gave it to me for protection-- how he promised me we'd always be together. And yet I feel so all alone.
I glance over at the scrapbook, noting how Kayleigh suggests picturing your problem like the mound of clay and working it down pancake-thin, until you have complete control over it. I place the crystal to the side and dip my sponge in the rainwater, wetting the clay block down until it's fully saturated. The moistness helps to soften the clay, enabling me to round out the edges and work at the center. After several minutes spent pushing and kneading, the cool gray mass is supple under my touch and I'm able to flatten it out.
Except I know full well it's going to take a lot more than breaking down a wad of clay to solve my problem. I close my eyes, feeling the hot-wax tears drip down the creases of my face and spatter my pancake of clay. I honestly don't know if I'll ever be able to get on with my life. But, like Amber said, I owe it to myself to try. I need to rebuild the walls of my world before the foundation cracks and there's nothing left.
With a deep, inhaling breath, I gather a wad of clay and roll it out between both palms to create a coil. I add it to the foundation and create more coils, building up the walls to create a bowl-like structure. "Save these walls from warp and wilt," I whisper. "With newfound strength, my world 83
rebuilt. I know not how I Shell be strong, but I must remember my life goes on. Blessed be the way."
I run the incense smoke over the bowl, concentrating on the idea of rebuilding my life. Then I grab the pen and paper and write
I flip the book open to a spell written by Kayleigh, my great-great grandmother's first cousin, and then I set the tray down, spreading the supplies on it, and remove the wad of clay from the box.
"Is that some art project?" Janie asks.
"Not exactly."
"Wait," Janie says, capping her bottle of nail polish. "You're not doing that witch stuff in here, are you? I mean, it's bad enough that you do it at all."
81
"I practice magic," I say, lighting a stick of incense and setting it down in its holder. "The real kind, not the Charmed kind."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I use my magic in a positive way-- to gain insight, to help others. No one gets hurt and I don't desecrate gravesites-- that includes stealing their plot flowers."
She folds her arms and looks away, like the mere image of me and my spells will turn her to stone. "I just don't believe in that stuff."
"Well, whether you believe it or not, it exists."
"No, I mean, it's against my beliefs."
"Look." I sigh. "I'd do my spell outside, but it's thirty below-- at least it feels that way-- and there's really no place else." I run my makeshift pottery tools-- a plastic fork, a wooden spoon, and one-half of a broken CD cover-- through the incense smoke to charge them. Then I pluck my crystal cluster rock from my night table and grip it in my palm.
"I live here, too, you know," she snaps.
"Janie," I say, "it's not what you're thinking. You'd be surprised; we probably have a lot more in common than you think, belief-wise."
"I doubt it." She averts her gaze and fishes though her smiling-watermelon-sticker-covered purse for a cell phone. "I'm leaving," she huffs. She dials her way out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.
A major plus, especially since negativity like that is bound to screw up my spell. I let out a cleansing breath before taking the smoking incense and rotating it three times 82
over my spread of supplies, in an effort to clear the air and create a sacred space. The puffy gray smoke hovers over the area, filling the room with a lemongrass scent, reminding me right away of Jacob. I gaze down at the crystal in my hand, remembering how he gave it to me for protection-- how he promised me we'd always be together. And yet I feel so all alone.
I glance over at the scrapbook, noting how Kayleigh suggests picturing your problem like the mound of clay and working it down pancake-thin, until you have complete control over it. I place the crystal to the side and dip my sponge in the rainwater, wetting the clay block down until it's fully saturated. The moistness helps to soften the clay, enabling me to round out the edges and work at the center. After several minutes spent pushing and kneading, the cool gray mass is supple under my touch and I'm able to flatten it out.
Except I know full well it's going to take a lot more than breaking down a wad of clay to solve my problem. I close my eyes, feeling the hot-wax tears drip down the creases of my face and spatter my pancake of clay. I honestly don't know if I'll ever be able to get on with my life. But, like Amber said, I owe it to myself to try. I need to rebuild the walls of my world before the foundation cracks and there's nothing left.
With a deep, inhaling breath, I gather a wad of clay and roll it out between both palms to create a coil. I add it to the foundation and create more coils, building up the walls to create a bowl-like structure. "Save these walls from warp and wilt," I whisper. "With newfound strength, my world 83
rebuilt. I know not how I Shell be strong, but I must remember my life goes on. Blessed be the way."
I run the incense smoke over the bowl, concentrating on the idea of rebuilding my life. Then I grab the pen and paper and write
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