Wicca Gospel

Rowan Lynam

165 words
No content warnings

Her momma used to say that the ground beneath their boots had a heartbeat. That the rough slide of palms on soil was the only way to really speak to God. Gardening and funerals had that much in common. She used to say that you knew magic had some truth to it by the way gospel choirs always sounded so bone-deep in sweaty churches, and how you could carry those songs in your pocket when you hiked the Blue Ridge. And that maybe this wasn’t our first time here, after all. Maybe it won’t be our last. She doesn’t call her momma often enough, nowadays. If she did, she might mention that good wine is scripture-laden, and that maybe she used to be bird. Maybe she used to be someone better than this. And if she believes in something bigger when she’s half a bottle in–no one ever had to know. She keeps these secrets in her boot soles, in case someone is listening.

Rowan Lynam is a journalist and poet living in Charleston, SC.