Open Writing

The quilt on my bed, on top so I can see it both awake and asleep, is a garden of flowers in soft rainbow colors on a background of simple, unbleached muslin. Stitched to the underside is written ‘made with love for Gloria from Jina’ and the name of the pattern, ‘Road to the Kitchen Sink’.

Not coincidentally, over my kitchen sink, hanging at a rakish angle as though about to take off, is a witch, a bit bigger than my fist, with a chin sharp enough to cut a pie, and purple bloomers to die for. Also handmade by Jina with the listening ears.

This witch sways in place by gossamer threads as airy as cobwebs. Maybe they are cobwebs. Years ago in a different kitchen I had a different witch, attached to the window over that sink with a tiny orange suction cup. She was stuck to her world as tightly as I was stuck to mine – until the day I yanked her off, stomped outside, and with a flying saucer finesse sailed her into the garbage can next to the garage. Then I trotted over and clamped down the lid.

I wish I hadn’t done that. It was a time when I thought what other people thought and bought what other people bought. Naturally, once I noticed my friends no longer had witches in their kitchens (witches weren’t cute anymore) I didn’t want one glued to my window like a canceled stamp.

Immediately I bought one of those three-tiered mesh aluminum baskets, just like everyone else had hanging in their kitchens: oranges on top; apples below; bananas spilling over on the bottom. Almost before the basket needed refilling I yanked it down (leaving a telltale hole of indecision in the textured popcorn ceiling). We ’girls’ had switched to marble rolling pins, casually sitting on the counter, each settled into its own holder like an arm in a sling.

I did not bond to any of these whimseys the way I had with my witch, although there was nothing special about her. She wore black and straddled a broom, and because her scraggly ‘do’ was the same color as her suction cup, every day was a bad hair day. I didn’t even give her a name. I didn’t name my three tier basket or my rolling pin, either, but I knew my witch was different, although I wouldn’t admit it. We were two female peas crammed in a pod with one man and four little boys.

When I gingerly lifted two cake pans from the oven and felt her questioning glance I would think to myself, Yes ma’am, it’s devil’s food from scratch. And when I did the dinner dishes, hand washing up to my elbows, she peered through the steamy kitchen window and watched my sons playing in the yard.

I must have told Jina (how else would she know?) days are as blurred as photographs of people I scarcely remember and places I don’t go any more. I probably wouldn’t recognize my old friend even if I could find her, and there’s a chance that she wouldn’t know me. Although, you would think she could have found me if she wanted to. After all, she is a witch.

I thought of getting another one, although they’re hard to find these days. Nobody has witches in their kitchens any more. That wouldn’t bother me now, because I don’t care any more, but it probably would have remained just a notion, if it hadn’t been for Jina with the nimble fingers and the listening ears.

‘Here,’ she said one day when they came to visit. (The ‘they’ is Russ – my son, her husband.) ‘This is for you.’ The box was the size that could hold a rather small almost anything. I lifted out a bulky white wad of tissue paper and tugged until a shapely boot with a fashionable heel appeared, and long shiny white stockings with purple polka dots leading into... what else but purple silk bloomers?

With one hand around her broomstick, she rests in midair, gazing intently at tall skinny evergreens poking into the sky. I don’t do what I thought I would do if I had another chance. I don’t take her places. I need to do my own thing, sometimes and I expect she does, too. Besides, those threads look too fragile to mess with.

Yes maybe they are cobwebs. I just let them be.