That horrendous kitchen witch, with the long and brittle looking nose that protruded out beyond the rest of her face. She had a patch of fuzzy white hair lurking from beneath her sage green, floral headscarf. She was creepy to say the least and hung on the side of my grandmother’s cabinet. I once recall asking my mother what the purpose of it was. Something about warding off bad spirits or something of that nature, she said.
For my grandmother, it was a symbol of good luck; but for me, it represented dread and the void of my virtue. It was the first thing that I would always see in entering my grandma’s kitchen as my uncle was leading me back to his loft style room that resided on the back of the kitchen. It was like she knew, mocking me from her fixed broomstick. I hated that witch.
Once through the ever-dirty and extremely small kitchen, always buried in dishes that peppered the counter, the lump in my stomach would metastasize. Every limb on me would feel weighted and I’d drag to move forward. Yet every time, he’d coax me to proceed through the back door of the kitchen into his lair. The air was always thick and stale, like that of filthy clothes piled atop each other for weeks at a time. The imprint of that scent stays burned in my nostrils. My heart would sink immediately on contact.
There are so many things about my childhood worth remembering, yet this one thing would invade every experience. This reoccurring removal of my humanity would scrape the joy from every corner and leave barren and vacant gaps in my mind. The wretched encounters would rob every flavorful ice cream from the “ding-ding” man, every school play, basketball in the driveway until it was time for dinner, Saved by The Bell episodes, and losing Legos in the backyard from playing outside late into the night.
Standing like some guardian of doom at the gate of every happy moment I could have, this looming beast would seep in and dissipate until unexplainable sadness and uncontrollable rage would arrive. I couldn’t understand; I was so very young. All I knew is what I felt and that was small, unprotected, and damaged.
That ghastly kitchen witch, with her Tawny skirt and her horrid face, even appearing in my terrifying and reoccurring dreams. She saw so much, knew so much and said nothing. I truly did hate that witch.
Comments