Rewitched

by Lucy Jane Wood

“Life really loves to chew you up, doesn’t it?” Belle nodded. “And then rather than spitting you out and giving you any kind of escape, it slowly digests you until you’re a rotted, relenting piece of your former self. Just covered in enzymes. And Christopher’s effusive sweat.”

“It’s never the right time. Ever. If you’re waiting for all of the stars and planets to align before you make decisions that’ll make you happier, you’ll be waiting forever.”

“I’m so behind already. We’re supposed to be leading empires and bringing down the patriarchy by now. It was on the calendar for last week.”

We’re past the point of having to think we can take over the world. We can just exist happily if we want to...

An abundance of the happiest returns on your thirtieth Orbital Completion. “Happy Birthday…probably would have been fine,” she muttered before reading on.

It seemed to be happening increasingly often—this moment where she’d look around for the responsible adult to guide her with a hand at the small of her back before the gut-punch realisation that she was on her own to make the call.

The girl she’d grown alongside, from seed to tree, two intertwining branches blooming in parallel through decades of shared seasons.

“I go through life constantly feeling like the moment right after lightning strikes but before the thunder hits, when you aren’t sure if it will even come or how loud it will be when it does. It’s all stored up so tightly and loudly in here, pressure and promise.”

“I miss her and she’s still here. Love does leave you vulnerable, if you allow it to endure.”

The pages provide the most golden company when one feels the pestering tap of loneliness.

“I promise it’s not like that. We took a solemn vow to grow old and become haunted beldams together while everyone else gets happily married and has delightful chubby babies. I respect the vow.”

The years without her had softened the grief, worn it down to a bluntness. It was no longer sharp or stabbing or severe. Instead, it was as though a silk scarf was knotted around her chest, permanent and solid but existing tenderly, tugging her backwards with a gentle pull every now and again with news or stories that she wished she could share.

One unremarkable day, her mother had somehow stopped being something untouchable. Her mother was something that could break.

I’ve just had more on my plate than an innocent teenager of thirty years old should ever have to handle by herself.”