Bound by Time

I stand naked before the full-length mirror in my bedroom. It tells truths. I am old now, but I don't have to be. There are ways.

I look at my body. A deep crevasse runs upwards on my left cheek, and many tinier lines crackle across my right. My eyes - left blue, right green - were once vibrant, but now they look dull. They see everything; they see nothing. My breasts sag; I can only see the top of my areolas. Not a surprise, they've been large since puberty. I look at my belly. It is no longer flat, but rather it plunges out and over so I can no longer see my own pubic hair, without my mirror. Even that's white, like the hair on my head.

I look down at my legs; even they have wrinkles. "Ha!" I say aloud to my thighs. "This is how you repay me for all those years of walking and going to the gym?!" My toes, like my hands are arthritic and crooked. My nails are yellowed from too many years of polish. What surprises me is that my appearance is less important to me now. I've learned acceptance in my old age, mostly.

As I stare at my reflection, I turn to the right and the left. I remember something from long ago. My mother always read to me before bed - a book, a poem, sometimes we'd even sing a ballad. I may have been seven or eight when she first read me Dylan Thomas's "Fern Hill". I was a sensitive child. "Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,/Time held me green and dying/Though I sang in my chains like the sea." I say this as if it were my mantra. Even as a child I knew we were all bound by time, whether it be lengthy or brief. My mantra now is: Move me forward from this place; move me to the plane of grace.

I walk across my room to my dresser and open the bottom drawer on the right. It's where I tuck away my special memories. I grab my mother's old knitted poncho and pull it over my naked body. Nana made it for her long ago, green and yellow stripes with white fringe, now grey. I can still smell my mother - her perfume - Chanel No. 5. She used to say the complex scents, a mixture of masculine and feminine, reminded her that this in not the only world in which we live.

I leave my bedroom and walk up a short, narrow set of stairs. Hecate follows. At the top I open the single French door that leads to the widow's walk of this old Victorian. Outside, I look at the night sky and watch Orion and Ursa Major swirl around the Earth - the Hunter and the Greater Bear. They will only dim with the rising sun. As do all constellation - as do all peoples, they too, have their stories. The planets, the stars, the moon - all remind me of time's passage. I know I have one more, large task at hand. I have been waiting for God and Goddess to tell me when to begin. Everything is in the stories - stories of the constellations, the origins of the universe, our solar system, our differing religions, our family histories, even our personal narratives. All different, yet all the same. I have the story; I can create the time. I think time is now.

I tiptoe down the small flight of steps to my bedroom. I take off my poncho and put on my blue flannel pajamas and old, cozy slippers. Soundlessly, I go to the kitchen with Hecate. As I take out a white teacup and saucer, I notice the house has put the kettle on to boil. I put my cup on the island and go to the ancient apothecary cabinet.

I am reminded of the first time I realized it was alive. It was the night my cousin, Celeste, and I were ready to concoct our first spell. Without telling our family. We asked Nana if we could borrow our family book - The Butterstone Family Book: A guide to spells and invocations. Nana had been pleased with our fib. I walked over to the cabinet. It's a little over six feet tall and is made of dark oak, a symbolism of strength. It's been told that it has belonged to our family before the beginning of time here on earth. Its color is deep brown. On the top there are thirty-six drawers, each labeled with its contents. Underneath, there were two separate glass doors. I stood near Nana as she opened one of the glass doors to retrieve the book from one of the shelves. I remember running my had across the wood, then the glass and touched the labeled cards. Soft waves rippled through me as my fingers coursed the the ins and out of the the heavy object. I took a deep breath of the ancient furniture and said to Nana, "I can smell the wood and the teas and herbs." I inhaled more deeply. "And people. I smell perfumes or just - bodies. Not dead ones. I mean, I can smell the different scents that we all have." Then I put my ear to the cabinet's side. "Nana? Do you even hear voices coming from? I hear whisperings or something."

"Hmmm." Nana looked at me sideways, deep in thought, as she handed me the weighty tome. She kissed my forehead. "You two have fun studying.

The kettle began to whistle, bringing me back to the present. "Shhh!" I hushed the kettle from across the room. I put my cup on the island and go to the apothecary cabinet. I try to open the drawer to take out a few chamomile leaves, but the cabinet will not let the drawer open. "Fine," I whisper, "I'll have some lavender." I pull on the small drawer marked, Lavender. It too will not open. I put my hands on my hips and sigh. "So that's the way it's going to be." I hold the palms of my hands outward toward the beautifully aged cabinet and recite a timeworn incantation.

"Ancient apothecary I come before you this night,

make me the tea you believe will be just right.

You are older and wiser than I will ever be;

you have always been the one who holds the key

to the correct herbs, the correct spices.

Tonight, help me give voice to all sacrifices.

Namaste."

I sit at the island on one of the leather backed chairs with wooden arms and watch the cabinet open several drawers. I look on as a combination of different ingredients are placed into a tea infuser and then it is placed into my cup. The kettle gently flows across the room, and hot water is poured into my teacup. Steam rises. After a few minutes I cautiously bring the cup to my lips, yet I notice it is tepid. "So you want me to drink it swiftly." I drink the tea at once. Then wait.

Unexpectedly, I feel youthful. The aches and pains of age are no longer with me. The house appears as it did in my youth. I am sitting at the chipped brown pine table on the old, yellow, linoleum floor. I see my mother and her sister, my Aunt Heather, making heart- shaped pancakes for Celeste and me. The two of us run into the kitchen in our matching pajamas - I in blue, my cousin Celeste in green. Morning hugs go round. Aunt Heather declares, "We made pancakes." She takes two stacks out of the oven and places them in the center of the table. "They're in the shape of a heart. 'Cause we love you." She kisses our foreheads. I can feel the kiss. More importantly, I can feel the love. Our mothers, identical twins, loved us passionately.

"Good-morning my loves." It's Nana. Oh Nana! She has her bright red hair. The dull blade of melancholy stabs my heart, leaving an ache.

The image fades and, once again, I am alone, and old. I sit in the glow of the candle. In front of me lay five empty notebooks and an equal number of pens. "So, I am to write." I feel the tea making its way through my body. I understand this calls for the five-day sleeping spell. But how? Will the spell come to me? It had been decades, after all.

I walk to my family's ancient and faithful apothecary cabinet. I take out the incantation bowl. It has a small spoon that hangs on a loop on its side. I also take the marble mortar and pestle. It is old and worn from centuries of Butterstone use. Lastly, I take the gold Butterstone pricking knife and lay it between the two larger objects. I stand back and look at these pieces from antiquity. And now I know. And the knowing feels familiar, good.

In the marble mortar I place purple amethyst, black tourmaline, cumin seeds, and holy basil. Now I cut five strands of my hair and put them into the bowl. I prick my thumb with the Butterstone pricking knife, and in go five droplets of blood. I crush my mixture in the mortar and pestle. It's been so long since I've cast a spell that I realize I've forgotten the peace that accompanies it. The house places one of my homemade rose scented candles in front of me and I smile. My mind fills with memories of Nana. Next, I pour the mixture into the brass incantation bowl. Taking the bowl carefully, with both hands, I walk to the dining room. I rest it on the table and open the window. Picking up the bowl, I stand before the cold night air and recite:

"Holy God, Holy Goddess, shroud this world with sleep.

Five days only, and no more - I promise to offer my keep."

The contents of the bowl swirl, as a tornado. Tiny stars begin to twinkle and they start to whirl up and out through the window to the heavens. As I watch the sparkling lights, I see things in them - the cows, elephants, lions, dogs, all creatures fall into a deep slumber. Whales and minnows serenely stop. The oceans and rivers still, the rains and snows cease. Even the winds rest. Now trains, cars, motorcycles, ships, and more, acquiesce. Lastly, all the Earth's people begin their silent sleep. Darkness shrouds all the world. I watch as the last of the glimmering stars float upwards and all the world is blanketed with a deep blue tranquility. I am the only one who doesn't rest. My invocation has been granted.

I return to the kitchen. There is a large round goblet, tinged with blue, and a bottle of sparkling water next to it. Hecate jumps onto the island and curls her black body in its center. I put on the overhead lights and fill my glass. Picking up a pen and a notebook, I hesitate. My mother and Celeste were the writers in the family, not I. Yet I feel the restlessness of the pen as I hold it still. It wants to write. It is the vessel that will bring my story to life. So, I begin with the first thought that comes to me.

Cheryl E. Martin