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It was simply that, for the melancholy druggist, happiness was something reserved for the past.
To ease the pain of those who suffer To repair the bodies of those who are ill To restore the minds of those in need
“Then what is the point? Why do this at all?” “Because there is still good that we can do.
Because sometimes our remedies can cure. Because we can bear witness to a woman who suffers when her doctors refuse to see her pain. Because even when we cannot heal, a bowl of chicken soup can offer comfort.”
A woman who was curious and hopeful and who still believed in the glimmers of magic that made their way quietly into the world.
“But whenever you’re here or at the library, I can feel your brain at work. And when your brain is churning away, I swear it makes your whole face light up. There’s nothing more beautiful than that.”
We must never be careless with our knowledge. We must be thoughtful. We must be patient.
But this isn’t some kind of geriatric fairy tale where everything gets magically fixed in the end.
could remember what it felt like to believe—not in the magic of witches or fairies, but in the magic of women who knew how to heal; the magic of women in the quiet of their kitchens, who could sweeten a bitter woman’s heart or soothe a man’s temper with a cup of tea. The ones who knew how to bring down a fever, assuage a toothache, or quiet a child with nothing more than a spoonful of honey, a gentle hand, and a few whispered words.
She believed in medicine and in miracles. She believed in family and in love. She believed in the power of moonlight in kitchens, in the power of women, in the power of words. She believed that even on life’s darkest days, a bowl of chicken soup could offer comfort. She believed that the world still held a bit of magic for those who were patient and wise enough to wait.
