Last Snow of the Season

Elizabeth stared at her reflection, her speckled forest green eyes shining subtly under her high bedroom lights.  “Okay, I’m going to tell them tonight when they get home,” she said to her reflection.  “I don’t think it’s fair to keep the fact that I’m Wiccan from them.  I almost feel like I’m lying to them.”  She looked up at the lights as she gathered her thoughts.  Her pupils constricted and revealed an amber star-shaped pattern around them.  She sighed and thought, “I wonder how they will react.  Will they be happy I found something I… love?”  She paused, thinking about that last word, but quickly returned to her original thought.  “Or will they be mad that I’m straying from how they raised me?  They might not even care, for all I know.”

Being a child of suburbia she knew nothing outside of her own safe, “neighborhood-crime-watch” world.  Her parents were conservative.  They had exceedingly traditional morals and held their beliefs in high regard.  They were Christian, albeit not overzealous; they had been known to be fervent on occasion.  For instance, after hearing about the controversy concerning taking the word “God” out of the Pledge of Allegiance, they both agreed, “God is a bigger part of this country than the president.”  Her mother was a stout woman, whose most treasured item was a gold cross necklace inset with pearls.  She had joined the military so that the family could have a “different outlook on life,” but her career was interrupted by a spinal injury and she was forced to retire.  Her father could be found habitually tidying their house, when he wasn’t focusing on his job, and despite working from home it seemed that he was seen less than if he worked in an office.

Elizabeth looked down at her ebony wood and wrought-iron desk, which was almost completely covered—there were trinkets, small pewter figurines of Greek deities and a frosted crystal vase containing a single white rose in its initial stages of blooming.  One space remained—a small shrine in front of a picture of her sister.  She and her sister could have been twins, if it wasn’t for the five year age difference.  They had the same eye color and the same silky auburn hair that became increasingly wavier the longer it grew.  Although they looked similar, there were enough differences to tell them apart.  Her sister had higher cheek bones and a longer face, which gave her an almost striking appearance.

The photograph’s antique silver frame shone from the light above it.  The light gleamed off of the small gold plate attached at the bottom of it, etched with the name “Alma.”  She looked at the photograph and began to speak softly and slowly, as if to allow it to take in every word, “I know I haven’t been practicing like I should or even as I used to, but I still feel like it’s part of who I am.”  She took a deep breath and continued, “Things just haven’t been the same without you.  I know it’s been four years since you died.”  Her eyes started to shine even more with the onset of small tears.  “But I can’t help wanting to talk to you.  Lately, I’ve been thinking about when you first showed me what Wicca was and how fresh and new it was.”  She looked up from the photograph and gazed listlessly into the mirror.

After a few moments, she turned from the large portrait mirror and looked out the arched bedroom window framed with curtains of deep sapphire.  It was snowing.  Even though it was the last snow of the season, it seemed to linger as if afraid to disappear until later that year, when it would begin anew.

Alma had asked her if she wanted to hang out with her in her room.  Since she was five years older (though it seemed like five decades), she was overjoyed to have the opportunity to spend time with a sister who seemed as if she never had enough time for anything other than friends, school, and herself.

She stepped into her sister’s room for the first time and gazed in awe at the wondrous way the room had been decorated.  Each of the various posters on the wall was slightly crooked, yet there was no sign of damage or mishandling.  The wood-framed bed jutted from the wall opposite the door so that the floor formed a bold U-shape.  The handmade quilt looked as if it had been replaced hastily on the bed’s surface and was almost completely covered in pillows, stuffed animals, and extra blankets, except the space where Alma was sitting and an area cleared next to her.

“Hey, Elizabeth, come here. I want you to see something,” Alma said, holding in her lap a large green paperback book with intricate silver designs coiling outward from each corner of the front cover.  The title was partially covered by her arms so that it read, “T h    C     f t.”

“What’s up with the book?” Elizabeth asked, trying to figure out the title.

“It’s what I want to show you,” Alma smiled overly cheery.  “Come here and sit next to me.”  She gestured to the empty spot.  “I think you’ll like this.”

Elizabeth gave an excited “okay,” and hurried over to where her sister was sitting and plopped down next to her.  “What book is it? Why will I be happy to see it?” Alma gave a small chuckle and handed her the book entitled The Craft.  “What’s this about, anyway?”  She started to flip through the pages carefully, hoping to notice something that would answer her question.

“It’s a book about Wicca.”

“Wicca?  Never heard of it.  What is it?”  Elizabeth continued to turn the pages, adding more time between each new page.

Alma looked up at the ceiling in the same manner Elizabeth did when she started to think.  “It’s hard to explain exactly what Wicca is without making it seem like something it’s not.”

“Please try,” Elizabeth said, closing the book and giving it back to her sister.  “I really want to know.”  She pleaded with her eyes and hoped Alma would not refuse.

Alma conveyed a suspicious look and laughed.  “Fine, fine, I’ll do my best.”  She told Elizabeth about the basics, including Karma, the elements air, fire, water and earth, meditation; rituals; and the Book of Shadows.  After she finished, Elizabeth still looked puzzled, so Alma continued, “Like I said, it seems like it’s really over-complicated, but it’s more of a spiritual type-of-thing.  The spells and rituals are a lot like praying and meditating toward a specific goal instead of conjuring stuff out of thin air.  Also, the Book of Shadows is basically a journal or diary that you use to write what spells and other things you’ve done and to help you remember the basics of what I just told you.”  She showed her sister another merry smile.  “Don’t worry about it too much.  If you want to do this with me, then I will always be there to help you.”

Elizabeth hugged Alma enthusiastically and said, “This sounds so amazing!  Maybe we’ll be able to spend more time together.”

“I’d hoped you’d like it.  I wasn’t sure at first but since you’re happy about it, I guess I shouldn’t have second-guessed myself.”

Elizabeth gave her sister another hug.  “Could I borrow the book?  I promise I’ll take good care of it.”

Alma gave another chuckle and said, “Of course you can borrow it; in fact, I bought it for you.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”  Elizabeth had given her sister one last squeeze and departed for her own room with the book clutched safely in her arms.

Elizabeth turned back to the mirror and stared at her reflection more intensely than before and thought aloud, “I can’t think of a time when I was more excited than when you put that book in my arms.”  The tears pooling in her eyes fell free and landed in the empty space in front of Alma’s photograph.  She turned her eyes, now shinier than before, back to the photograph and proceeded to attempt breath control through slight meditation, just as her sister had taught her almost five years before.  Her heart rate began to slow and after she was sure that she would not hyperventilate or burst into tears, she talked to the photograph as she had done previously.  “Looking back on it, I don’t think I’m as excited about Wicca as I was back then.  Of course, I don’t see things the same way I did when I was twelve.  Perhaps most of my enthusiasm came from the possibility of spending time with someone I thought to be a mystery.”  She gave a deep sigh and thought whether or not to resume, but figured since she was alone that she might as well.  “After your death I thought I would never be happy again.”  She wiped her eyes with a tissue.  “I may not have known you as well as I would have liked, but you are…well…were my big sister and you showed me something…something that made us close and helped me get to know you, but sometimes I wish that you never showed me anything.”  Her voice started to shake.  “If you hadn’t taught me what Wicca was, I wouldn’t have been as sad about your death since I didn’t even know anything about you.”  She stopped.  She couldn’t seem to believe what she had just said and quickly tried to justify it to the photograph and to herself, “All I knew was that you were my big sister and you never had any time for me.”  She looked down dejectedly at the stained, graying carpet in shame and wondered whether what she said was true.

Still looking down, she said, “Maybe I was just ‘playing’ Wicca so I could be close to someone I didn’t know and thought didn’t want to know me.”  Talking to no one in particular she said, “But if I was just playing, why did I start practicing again?  Do I really love it?”  She started to bring her head up.  “Why wouldn’t I?  It brought me closer to my sister, gave me some confidence knowing that I can do something in life, and I think it may have helped me deal with not having had friends for more than a few months before having to move.”

Elizabeth stared into the mirror once more.  Not long afterwards she was startled by the sound of the front door closing and a soft and almost stern voice calling, “Elizabeth, we’re home.  You wanted to talk to us earlier?  Well, if you still do then come downstairs and talk.  My back’s bothering me.”

She assured her mother that she would be right there.  Before leaving her room she glanced once more at her sister and thought, “I may not be sure why I’m continuing with this exactly, but I am sure that Alma loved me and I can always change my mind later.”  Upon entering the hallway she regarded the multiple oak-framed photographs hanging on either side of the white-walled corridor.  Alma’s high school graduation, Elizabeth and Alma at the park as children, their parent’s wedding and the “perfect family” portrait.  Abolishing her stupor, she rushed down the hallway, wrinkling the floral rug and nearly running into an antique bookstand, upon which rested the family Bible.  At the top of the spiral staircase she hesitated.  She then straightened her beige peasant blouse and denim ankle-length skirt and proceeded down the stairs with a picture of Alma in her mind’s eye.