What is the story I want to tell?
Where do I start?
There’s the town, the shop, the house, the pianos, the letters, Sandra….
…and the man, my God, the man….
I didn’t come from here. My mother and I left the Hungarian city where I was born in July of 1938.
She died in 1965. Sandra joined her two years later.
I still see them in my kitchen, chatting, laughing, salting stocks, and kneading dough.
No one bakes in the suburban cul-de-sac where I live. I suspect few know how.
They buy their breads and cakes in quaint Midwestern bakeries and markets, and bring hot meals home in plastic containers, or bags, or cardboard boxes.
But I am a creature of old habits, and fill my home with the scents of my mother’s soups and rolls, Sandra’s floral teas and spiced candles.
They were conjurors, my mother and my Bashert, giving life to everything they touched. reading past, present, and future in the palm of a hand, knowing what was in someone’s heart before they uttered a word, or sensing nature’s whims with an index finger. They were entwined with the universe in ways I will never understand.
Although they did their best to teach me, one line on a hand will always look like another to me. I cannot see the future. My only oracles are things that grow.
Still, people come to our Fortune Emporium seeking cures and spells and gypsy wisdom. And they come to talk.
Everyone has a story.
Even houses have them—tales absorbed from foundations, beams, and walls.
You can find a new home for a withering plant, but its roots will remember where it’s been, what it was.
The cells know. The earth remembers.
My name is Varna, and I am a weaver.
(Excerpt from Weaver)
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