Saturday morning, so the porch got swept: back of the house to the front door, front door to the steps, steps out to the street. Then a bucket of warm water with lemon, a handful of salt and a splash of Florida Water for the steps and the doorframe. Psalm 23 the whole way through, twice. Grandmama always said never sweep after dark or you'll sweep your luck out with the dust. I'm fifty-eight years old and still not brave enough to test it.
My sister's boy starts his electrician apprenticeship Monday, and she called and asked me to put a light up for him. First thing she's asked me for since Mama's house. So tonight I dressed a white candle with a little olive oil, set it in a saucer of sand on the kitchen table, and read Psalm 37 over it. 'Fret not thyself.' He frets. He gets that from me. Grandmama taught me you don't pray at the Lord like you're ordering at a drive-through. You pray alongside the work. That boy finished his course at the tech college, passed the aptitude test on the second go, and has his new boots lined up by the door already. My job is the rest of it. Candle's burning down now. I don't leave the room while it's lit, never have. Front porch swept, Florida Water on my hands, and a full heart.
Marcus, my godson, has a big interview Monday, so tonight I brewed a strong pot of chamomile, let it cool, and had him wash his hands in it while he said out loud what he wants. Chamomile has always been a luck herb in our family, for money, for jobs, and for card games my uncles would rather I didn't mention. He asked if he could drink the rest. I said baby, it's just chamomile, it's for whatever you need. He drank it, washed his hands again for good measure, and went to bed early. That's a win before Monday even gets here.
Uncle Roosevelt kept an old dream book on the kitchen table, the kind folks used to buy at the drugstore, cover held on with tape. Back in the day plenty of people used those to play the numbers. Uncle never did. He said the Lord and Aunt Ruby both frowned on it, and he wasn't sure which one scared him more. He just liked reading what the old folks thought dreams meant. Last week I dreamed about fish. A whole washtub of catfish sitting on my porch. Now, any Southern grandmother will tell you what dreaming of fish means. Sunday after church my niece pulled me aside on the steps. Baby due in May. Didn't even need the book.
In my dresser drawer there's a red flannel bag that used to live in my grandmother's. Inside, a pair of lodestones. Lodestone is natural magnetite, a stone that pulls, and in rootwork we keep them for drawing good things close: steady work, good luck, people who mean you well. You feed them. Fridays I take them out, say a few words over them, sprinkle a pinch of magnetic sand so it bristles up on them like little whiskers, and dress them with a drop of oil. Then back into the flannel. Grandmama said a fed stone is a working stone, and a hungry stone gets lazy. I've never once let them get lazy.
Our niece Tanya drove up to Atlanta for nursing school this week, her first time living away from home. Before she left I sent her off the way my uncle sent me: an old silver Mercury dime in her left shoe, the 91st Psalm read over her on the front porch, and a little red flannel bag in the glovebox with salt, a bay leaf and a picture of her grandmama. She asked if the dime actually does anything. I told her it reminds her she's got people praying behind her. That's what it does. She texted me last night: "Made it. Shoe's uncomfortable." Good. Means she's still wearing it.
Went up to the hospital this week to sit with Harold, who sang bass beside me in the choir for thirty years. He's had a hard fall and a harder week. He can't sing right now, so I told him I'd do the praying for both of us. Psalm 121, the one his mother used to say: 'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.' He mouthed along the whole way. When I got to 'the Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in,' he squeezed my hand so hard I thought I'd need a doctor myself. Folks ask how a deacon can also be a rootworker. Same answer every time: it's all the Psalms, it's all the Lord, and it's all love for the people in front of you.
Thirty-one years I carried mail, the same route for the last nineteen. My Loretta packed my lunch every one of those days, and there was always a little note in the bag. Mostly scripture. Sometimes just 'Don't forget the Hendersons' dog bites.' She passed in March. I retired in June because I couldn't stand opening that lunch bag. Now, folks around here say when a cardinal comes close, it's somebody you love paying a visit. I always nodded at that the way you nod at your aunties. Polite. Last week I drove the old route, just to see it. Stopped by the Hendersons' place (the dog is gone too, God rest him). Got out to stretch my legs, and a male cardinal landed on the mailbox. Not the fence, not the dogwood. The mailbox. Looked right at me and tilted his head the way Loretta did when she was about to tell me I needed a haircut. I stood there so long Mrs. Henderson came out to see if I was alright. I told her yes ma'am, I was just getting my mail. I'd put a dime in my shoe that morning like my uncle taught me, and said Psalm 23 like I do every day. But I'll tell you, I said it a little louder on the drive home. I don't know all the whys of this world. I know who packed my lunch for thirty-one years. And I know she never could stand me being sad for long.
My sister and I haven't been right since Mama's house was sold. Too many words at the closing table. We're talking again, but stiff, like two people who learned each other out of a book. So I set a honey jar. I told her I was doing it and she laughed and said "go on then, do your thing," which is the most she's said to me in weeks. Our two names on brown paper, written crosswise, folded toward me, pressed down into a small jar of honey with a cinnamon stick and a few dried rose petals. I read Psalm 133 over it: "Behold, how good and how pleasant it is..." Every Sunday I burn a little white chime candle on the lid, set in my cast-iron skillet on the stove where I can watch it till it's done. Three Sundays in. Yesterday she called to ask for Mama's cornbread recipe. Slow is how honey works.
Folks ask why I don't use tarot. Simple: my uncle Roosevelt read a plain deck of playing cards at his kitchen table, so I do too. Hearts for love and family, diamonds for money, clubs for work and worry, spades for the hard things. He'd shuffle, have you cut three times toward yourself, then lay nine cards in a square and talk to you the way a good mechanic talks about your car. Gentle, but no nonsense. Read for a young lady from church this week (she asked; I don't go offering). Nine of hearts dead center, the wish card. Ace of spades down in the corner. I told her what my uncle would have: the wish is real, the hard thing is real, and you're going to have to walk through the one to get the other. She said it was the first reading that didn't just tell her what she wanted to hear. Uncle Roosevelt would have been pleased.
You’ve reached the edge of the sky.