Member-only story
Back When I Believed in Magic
The wrinkly, red-faced man nodded at me: “Take it. You’ve been staring at it long enough.” I’d wandered away from my mom in a nondescript convention center hosting a gemstone exhibition in some mid-sized German town. I’d been looking at the golden-yellow citrine stones, running my fingers over the smooth surfaces. “This stone dissolves fear. You need it. Pick one.” He didn’t say it especially friendly, more resigned like there was some secret understanding all booth owners had that if a middle-school-aged girl showed up and stared long enough at one stone or another, you had to give her what she so obviously needed.
I wanted to believe the stone had magical powers, but it didn’t do anything about my fear. However, the kindness remained etched in my memory. I kept the stone for years, until I lost it in a move.
At a family reunion I met one of my great, great, great aunts (or something like that) for the first and only time. Her skin pale and papery, red lipstick bleeding into tiny wrinkles, and dark hair (definitely dyed) sprayed stiff into Old Hollywood curls. We sat on a sticky couch in the low light of a thick Ohio summer evening. She told me about Jesus and I told her about my crush and our first date at the movies. She wore a long chain with a bleeding heart Jesus medallion over her high-necked, cream silk blouse. I wore a powder blue tank top and hot pink…
