Mom - Epilogue

(the last days continued)

The sky was varying shades of dark gray, like the pewter tops of the German beer steins my grandfather brought back from the war. Cold and raining, a real frog-strangler even by southern standards, we made a quick break for my truck. I quickly opened the door, tucked my head, pulled myself up, and slid behind the wheel. My sister did the same, getting in on the passenger side. The doors shut. We sat, silent except for the rain pounding the roof, eyes fixed ahead as if transfixed by the windows gradually fogging from our breath.

She broke the silence, clutching the urn in her lap. “Ding, dong . . . the Witch is dead.”

There was no malice or judgement in her voice. No fallen house displaced by a tornado, feet with ruby red slippers protruding from underneath it. A simple statement of fact, like a judge issuing a sentence for crimes determined by others.

I didn’t say a word, continuing to stare straight ahead. There was no need. There are no good witches coming to make things better.