Spell…

Spell

The hour before the

➡️witches

➡️congregate

is where the real

➡️magic

➡️happens

I see them preparing

just before

➡️dreaming

of seamless wheelchair

➡️transferences

I’d pray to them for

➡️rested

➡️assurances

if it meant

➡️attaining

➡️one

➡️uninterrupted

➡️spell

~

Behind the poem: This poem began with an intentional double-meaning. We usually think of a spell as something cast by witches, but we also use the word to describe a stretch of uninterrupted time. For me, as a caregiver, that second definition of spell carries its own kind of magic. A full night’s sleep. A transfer that goes smoothly. An overnight without alarms sounding from Bray Bray’s bed. Those moments can feel just as mythical as anything from a fairy tale.

The arrowed words serve two purposes for me:

• They stand alone as their own poem if you just read those words.

• They act like ingredients being added to a potion, each one carrying a little more weight until the ending reveals what the speaker has really been trying to conjure.

The witches aren’t necessarily witches, and they are certainly more graceful than grizzled. They’re stand-ins for whatever unseen force might grant exhausted caregivers a small miracle. Sometimes the most potent magic isn’t found in enchanted forests. It can be one uninterrupted spell of rest before unconditional love asks you to get up again.

~

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That’s all from me — Chris B.