by Joyce Thornburg

I always felt another presence in the room with Granny.

She looked straight through me — 
her eyes fixed on some invisible thing.

Seventy pounds of pure spirit, I felt her love with the force of ten thousands hammers.

Her snuff-stained apron as holy as a nun’s habit.

She wrapped a string around a wart on my finger, mumbled incomprehensible words — then buried the string.

In three days, my wart was gone.

Journal, Volume 3 Issue 2