That’s one of the earliest lines in “Practical Magic 2,” and likely in the books that inspired them that I read far too long ago.
Last night the clocks fell back. I wasn’t excited to have to be an insomniac for an extra hour. But the ancestors gave me more restful hours than fitful ones.
I got to thinking about the marigolds I bought yesterday for my altar.
How I always feel like I don’t do enough to feed those who went before me. Especially as I am the last and only one to honor and remember them.
Perhaps more depressingly to me, as it is all about me you know, no one will have me on THEIR altars. Which also means the memories of my own beloveds will disappear into the ether for good.
I’ve spent so many nights awake because of fucking Gavin. I don’t lose sleep over Heather or anyone else. But this motherfucker has stolen over a month of my nights … not to mention some of the days I was in Pittsburgh.
His own wife is a witch. Was a witch. She’s has a very rough go the past few years. Which is why I haven’t told him to bend over.
In a moment of desperation, I asked Claude for a retirement spell for him.
Because if there’s one thing I won’t do, it’s a spell for harm. Not even against that orange sack of shit who stole the presidential election once, maybe twice.
Maybe i need to do a retirement spell for me. Because these manufactured crises every six months are going to put me into a grave I still have to buy since there’s no one to actually do it.
In any event, the title of this post was so inspirational. But I’ve made it macabre, as one does.
But it was from me thinking … right now I am the AI slop shoveler. And this story — MY STORY — deserves a better ending. I’m sick of giving all my creative juices to everyone but me.
It’s time for me to become unrecognizable to the ancestors.
So that when I do see them again, and not just on these thin-veil days, they’ll say, “Oh, how our Dawnie lived!”
Blessed be.