This week’s challenge is to prepare a dish fit for a witch. I went in a different direction.
They always come to the back door. Those same women who, if they met up with her in town, would avert their eyes and cross the street.
But still they come. Embarrassed, perhaps even afraid, they turn to her as a last resort. A love unreturned, a husband strayed, sometimes an unwanted child. They knock softly and whisper to her of their needs.
She does not judge. She nods slowly, asks them a few questions and takes their crumpled bills. They wait on the porch, regardless of the weather, while she makes their remedy. Unspeakable? Perhaps. Yet still they come.