Mother Dee

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.

Psalm 37 for my nephew

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.

Feeding Grandmama's lodestones

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.

Sweetening things with my sister

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.