Bri found a parking space in the lot across the street, stepped on the manual brake and undid her seat belt.
I won't be coming with you, but the bacon ...
"The bacon'll be crispy. I know." Bri slid from her seat and headed for the back of the van where a sliding door opened to her home. Shelves filled with large amber bottles and small vial glass jars labeled with their contents lined one side of the the wall upon entering. These were the tinctures, the plant medicines arranged in her own sort of alphabetical order, like her floppy script. She kept just a few of the most necessary: St. Joan's Wort for managing the heat, soothing aches, and keeping viruses in check; Mother Wort for heart strength and heart ache; Echinacea for colds and infection; Yarrow flower tips for soothing sore throats and calming inflammation especially in the mouth; Sweet Violet in an oil of the olive of course for keeping her channels clear so she would always hear the trees. It was the Violet that originally spoke to Ambriana when the experts were giving her guardian the diagnosis -- tinnitus. "Ringing in the ears so loud she becomes addled ..." But really it was the conversation of the Trees wanting access to the tiny girl. Ambriana knew she would always be as tall as they.
The adjoining wall was shelved with intricately patterned colored glass doors -- kaleidoscopes of shapes that changed dependent upon the young witch's temperament. Folded lengths and scraps of cloth, old cloth of natural fibers, cloth as old and older than the step van itself filled the cubby holes. Each length of fabric was layered with a gauze of paper so thin it could have been spider's silk. Well, in fact, it was the silk of very particular spiders who fed on the musk or dust mites that would set off the young Ambriana's allergies. There was a ritual of cleaning both the spider silk and the old cloth. In four nights the dark moon would require the month ceremony, the cleaning.
Only one cubby contained a thin metal box of soft muslin at the bottom of the shelving. These scraps were for cleaning and caring for the black leather lace-up boots. The young woman sat on her bed, pulled the box of muslin onto her lap. It was a small flat tin box the size of a shoe box.
"Clean the boots before you climb down," Ambriana repeated the instructions to herself. She had heard it many times in her life and when she finished the simple mantra Bri untied the laces on the black boots and slipped them off in turn starting with the left one.
The 1956 van was originally a bakery van. When bread was delivered fresh and long johns were still filled with real custard Wila B. was a tiny girl of eight with a delight for making sweets. The girl was small for her age but that made her passion for baking that much grander. Wila's daddy Ambrose Bolinas was a baker and the van was an investment in a dream. "This is big magic," he told his only daughter. "To see our sweet bread and long johns going out into the early morning darkness, just like the milk man. It's a beautiful thing, Sweet Patootie. Something special. 5 cents for long john, 10 cents for hand-size poa doce. We not going get rich, but we going make plenty people happy."
If Wila Bolinas's mother had lived she would have corrected her beloved Ambrose for she knew between them, the pair would become rich beyond her husband's wildest dream. The small and beautiful cubby holes of kaleidescopic glass would watch those things she could not see in person. They were the eyes of cats long the friends and familiars of women who delighted in making life sweet.
"I am not solid, but I am not gone."
I won't be coming with you, but the bacon ...
"The bacon'll be crispy. I know." Bri slid from her seat and headed for the back of the van where a sliding door opened to her home. Shelves filled with large amber bottles and small vial glass jars labeled with their contents lined one side of the the wall upon entering. These were the tinctures, the plant medicines arranged in her own sort of alphabetical order, like her floppy script. She kept just a few of the most necessary: St. Joan's Wort for managing the heat, soothing aches, and keeping viruses in check; Mother Wort for heart strength and heart ache; Echinacea for colds and infection; Yarrow flower tips for soothing sore throats and calming inflammation especially in the mouth; Sweet Violet in an oil of the olive of course for keeping her channels clear so she would always hear the trees. It was the Violet that originally spoke to Ambriana when the experts were giving her guardian the diagnosis -- tinnitus. "Ringing in the ears so loud she becomes addled ..." But really it was the conversation of the Trees wanting access to the tiny girl. Ambriana knew she would always be as tall as they.
The adjoining wall was shelved with intricately patterned colored glass doors -- kaleidoscopes of shapes that changed dependent upon the young witch's temperament. Folded lengths and scraps of cloth, old cloth of natural fibers, cloth as old and older than the step van itself filled the cubby holes. Each length of fabric was layered with a gauze of paper so thin it could have been spider's silk. Well, in fact, it was the silk of very particular spiders who fed on the musk or dust mites that would set off the young Ambriana's allergies. There was a ritual of cleaning both the spider silk and the old cloth. In four nights the dark moon would require the month ceremony, the cleaning.
Only one cubby contained a thin metal box of soft muslin at the bottom of the shelving. These scraps were for cleaning and caring for the black leather lace-up boots. The young woman sat on her bed, pulled the box of muslin onto her lap. It was a small flat tin box the size of a shoe box.
"Clean the boots before you climb down," Ambriana repeated the instructions to herself. She had heard it many times in her life and when she finished the simple mantra Bri untied the laces on the black boots and slipped them off in turn starting with the left one.
The 1956 van was originally a bakery van. When bread was delivered fresh and long johns were still filled with real custard Wila B. was a tiny girl of eight with a delight for making sweets. The girl was small for her age but that made her passion for baking that much grander. Wila's daddy Ambrose Bolinas was a baker and the van was an investment in a dream. "This is big magic," he told his only daughter. "To see our sweet bread and long johns going out into the early morning darkness, just like the milk man. It's a beautiful thing, Sweet Patootie. Something special. 5 cents for long john, 10 cents for hand-size poa doce. We not going get rich, but we going make plenty people happy."
If Wila Bolinas's mother had lived she would have corrected her beloved Ambrose for she knew between them, the pair would become rich beyond her husband's wildest dream. The small and beautiful cubby holes of kaleidescopic glass would watch those things she could not see in person. They were the eyes of cats long the friends and familiars of women who delighted in making life sweet.
"I am not solid, but I am not gone."
No comments:
Post a Comment