A Star Seed and A Witch

As I recall, the year was 1981, and on that day, the heat rose from the roads in slow, heavy waves. I could taste green sugarcane, wet black earth, and underneath them the older iron of the lake’s long memory. The air was dense and unforgiving, but with summer on the way it seemed to matter a little less that day.

I was the third boy in the family, only five, with dirty-blond hair and eyes light blue with shades of green.

The Florida sun hung low and merciless over Pahokee. The cane whispered in the humid breeze, but I heard more than wind. The land spoke to me when it was quiet enough to listen.

My mother, flicking her cigarette out the window, left me at the small office on the edge of town. I felt the press of her lips on my forehead and then the sharp finality of the car door slamming. I watched her pull away and turned to greet Grandma. I stepped inside, clutching a paper bag. Inside it, the cupcake’s frosting had already begun to melt; the sugar-sweet scent rose to me mixed with the faint, pure note of my still-innocent heart.

Grandma’s face lit up when she saw me. Her cat-black hair, with shades of silver, flung to the sides as she reached down to hug me. To my sight, her joy bloomed in the dim office like the first true dawn. The room smelled of old paper, sweet tea, and lavender. Filing cabinets stood like silent sentinels.

She cleared space on the desk and placed crayons in my small hands.

“Draw me something beautiful, sweetheart.”

I will not tell you the rest here. A book is a pact: some rooms stay closed until you agree to enter. The opening is a boy, a grandma, a pattern in the muck. The rest is the bound work.