This is the beginning of a story that I scribbled down in the coffee shop today.
I have had this idea in the back of my mind for a while.
It showed up in my notebook today like this.
My grandmother was quiet and mysterious and knew mysterious things.
She was part gypsy, at least that is what I grew up believing.
She could heal wounds, and cure sickness, and she always knew how things would turn out.
She could predict bad news, and see right through untrustworthy people.
She knew what to do about both.
She had secret recipes, and special remedies,
and wise old sayings, to fit every situation.
She believed in good luck and friendly forces.
She also believed in the unfriendly forces,
and she took great pains to protect us from them.
I would watch her fill a little cloth bag with needles,
and nails and…
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