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I had been a witch since I was fifteen. One of my parents worked every weekend, most often, both. My grandfather just said church wasn’t for him. He spent Sundays in his woodshop. My sisters and I got stuck at the old, musty Methodist Church between my grandmother and my aunt. I always ended up beside my grandmother, which I thought was rather stupid because Paige was so young and my aunt always had to carry her downstairs to the nursery. Reading fantasy novels led me to the folklore shelves in the library, and on the other side of those shelves were the books on religion. The Spiral Dance had a red cover and was like a forbidden fruit in a garden of dry and bitter things. I stood reading it until my legs started to ache. I took the book to a quiet room and sat in a cubicle, reading, reading, until a librarian tapped on the glass door. The library was closing. It was almost five on Saturday afternoon. I took the book home and copied much of it by hand into a notebook. I still had the notebook.

I hid my first altars in plain sight by using dollar store figurines as goddesses and other cheap knickknacks, even Christmas decorations, to decorate the altars. My mother thought nothing of my using my grandmother’s old cut-glass salt and pepper shakers as vases for violets and other little wildflowers. My grandmother gave me a little allowance for vacuuming and dusting her house every week. I used it to buy “witchcraft” books that I hid at the bottom of my hamper, the one place my sisters would never look. My mother made us do our own laundry. She laughed long and hard when I fessed up as an adult.

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After my grandfather’s death, I took the stepladder from its place on the garage wall. Up in the rafters, I found old bottles with dead flower bouquets, and a wooden box. I took everything, replaced the ladder, and swept away my footprints in the pea stones. My grandmother was still alive, and my aunt might take anything out of the house or any other building on the property.

It was a rough handmade box, like something my grandfather had carved before he even became an apprentice woodworker. There were newspaper clippings, photos, and a postcard. A woman stood at what seemed to be the edge of a cliff, with little boys surrounding her knees. Someone had written Morton shaky pencil over one dark-haired boy. I touched the name. Most heartbreaking, someone had scratched out the face of my great-grandmother, probably, I thought, my great-grandfather’s second wife, after my great-grandmother died in childbirth. There were no other pictures of my great-grandmother in existence.