The Young Witch

One night a year I am given the freedom to enjoy my real identity. My dress - layers of orange and black and purple – is three years old. This year, it is a little tight, but I can still get away with it. All but one of the felt decorative spiders on the dress has been chewed off – an anxious snack. I reveled in that one night a year in the dangerous authenticity of my costume, the daring implications of the witch.

Summer mornings – Front Steps. Two rows of pine salute me both left and right. I fold my hands carefully together and lift them to my lips; I make a single call. Below me are the beds of sky blue scorpion grasses I planted in the spring. They are beginning to shrink, but still show off their vibrant hue to me. I receive a response – a morning dove nested in the pine above. Once again, I make a call. Three more doves join us. More and more doves come, and we hold pleasant conversation until the sun has revealed herself fully to us over the horizon.

Noon – or maybe one – Field. I walk through the trails of milkweed and burnt grass. I dance with the garden snakes and put them in my hair. The fox cubs are wrestling. One less than last week, cannibalism I fear. Many beautiful skulls half buried in the field will become shelter for next year’s generation. Hesitation at the end of the path. I solemnly approach the tree house that belonged to my father. Vacant. Overgrown in vines and branches of unidentifiable trees. Crows have nested it. Turkey vultures dine in it. A pinnacle of adventure and freedom. Completely inaccessible to me. Every day, I break the dead branches and trample over the vines to extend the path. Tomorrow, I will return to find my progress undone and the vines regrown.

Sunset – Front Yard. I can never neglect the cherry tree, whom bared her delicate flowers late. Wise and unique in her beauty – an artist and composer. Together, we will gaze at the adjacent corn field. Watch as the sun performs a great illusion over the land. We whisper to the wind about which symphonies the bugs will perform for us tonight.

Midnight – Bed. A thunderstorm reveals her rage upon the Earth. The Colonel of the pine taps at my window, urgently reporting the damage and consulting on a course of action. The angels bowling in heaven will strike down my doves. Their tears will wash away my forget me nots. The flash of their cameras will bury deep scars into my pine soldiers; my protectors. We will have to convene in the morning. She is too powerful for us. Stay strong and do not fight the wind.

As Fall nears, I watch my cherry tree recede, my snakes and fox cubs nestle deep into the warm earth, and my pines fall into depression. PTSD they say. A part of myself will leave with them. I celebrate them all on Halloween, with my pointed hat and striped stockings. Maxine Sanders in my blood. Nature in my heart.

Next year my costume will be stolen. I will be told:

“Hence forth you will wear a tiara and a pink dress. If you must rule the land you must do so from a tower. Your title is no longer witch queen but pretty princess. You will tame puppies not fox cubs. You will plant roses not – forget about the color blue. Forget about your pine army and your trees. Never stray past the trail head. Never – Why is it that you always wake up with your hair as matted as a snake nest?”