A Saturday Spell

By Taz Brathwaite

Saturday evenings are times for chilling.

Three self identified brujas joined their auras to create an atmosphere of love, healing, and sisterhood. “Sisterhood is medicine” the three of them often said to sanctify these moments.

“Who wants greens?”

“Well, you rolled it... so you do the honors.”

As Solange sings “Cranes in the Sky”, the audible clicking of a bright orange lighter met the end of a mediocre rolled blunt.

One of the brujas began the story of her first memory with her spirituality...

Saturday mornings are times for cleansing.

I remember my mom stripping me butt naked and putting me in the shower. The sunlight made its way through the bathroom window in a diagonal, deliberate streak across the drawn white shower curtain. The cold tile floors always demanded my attention in the mornings. I’d climb out of the heap of heavy blankets and plush pillows to a pang of coldness on the soles of my feet. I stood there expectedly in the tub counting grayish-blue tiles on the wall by two’s, waiting for mi madre to return with her pot of potions.

In the smoke filled room, selenite, amethyst, rose quartz, and clear quartz form a crystal grid. A deck of tarot cards, a bottle of white rum, and an introduction to Buddhism also furnished the table. Solange continued. And the bruja continued...

Finally, my mom nudged the door open with the pot of potions and rested it on the toilet. I peered into the pot containing water mixed with so many herbs, each holding divine properties. In my youth I could not understand the magick behind these plants nor behind my mom’s words when she said “Say a prayer and release good intentions into the world.” With those words she raised the pot and let the potion pour over the crown of my head. It was like being ordained...except in the arms of your mother... It was special.

“Go find something white to put on. Make sure you’re wearing all white,” she would instruct me.

“But mom, I don’t think I have white underwear...” I would fret. With two waves of the hand, shooing me away, “Just find something white.”

When I came back downstairs my mom was clearing the table. With the flick of her hands the white tablecloth cascaded across the table top. She placed candles on the table. I remember being captivated by her deliberate gentle motions as she put each offering into place. She built each altar with overflowing love and great pride. She never spoke while she did so, but I knew that I was supposed to observe. I was to pick it up the way she picked it up. My mom walked over to switch off the lights. Still in silence, we watched the flames dance. There were no words, but you felt everything you needed to hear.

“Mmmmmm, wow that’s powerful,” one of the brujas intently listening with eyes closed, responded softly. The three of them sat in silence for a while with the story ringing in the air like a Tibetan singing bowl.

“I hate to interrupt, but the food!” the brujas filled the room with laughter and light.

Soon after they were each sitting around the coffee table sharing chicken tikka masala with rice and naan. “Thanks for sharing this with me, this is the type of meal that tastes better shared.”

“You got the light, count it all joy...” Solange proceeded. The next bruja transported us to her night stand, as sage and palo santo burned and smoke tendrils danced to the rhythm of the music...

Who creaked open the door at night?

To slip a cursive handwritten note on her night stand

And take a few nibbles of the sweets.

A merengue at the corner

For the tiny nimble figure to feast.

All the while the child slept,

Dreaming dreams of trolls and sprites.

When Mr. Sun arrives the next morning,

In the sticky residue of the devoured merengue  

Fairy dust glitters in the glimmer of daylight.

Saturday evenings are times for chilling.

Saturday mornings are times for cleansing.

Saturdays are times for sisterhood.