I Raf You Big Sister Is A Witch -

Not real wolves—though there were wolves that winter—but wolves in the form of men in wool coats and shoes with names printed inside. They called themselves a consortium at first. They wanted an audience with my sister. They asked for a demonstration. They brought flowers and legal pads and a man who smelled faintly of old books and the sea.

"We misjudged," she said. "We miscounted the currency."

They found me on a Tuesday that tasted faintly of lemon and ash. i raf you big sister is a witch

She had a gift for me then: a small stone that fit my palm like a heart. "This will remind you to keep accounts," she said. "Not with others, but with yourself."

I wanted to chain her to the porch with promises. I wanted to bargain with the wolves in the only currency I had—love and insistence and the small foolish contracts of family. But love is poor tender when the world decides to sell your sister to its ledger. I watched her step over the threshold and shut the door behind her. Not real wolves—though there were wolves that winter—but

I told my sister. She listened, throat bobbing like a caged bird.

I wrote because a life that contains a witch should not be left to rumor. If I were ever questioned—by grief, by disbelief, by friends who meant well and police who regarded unusualness as polite fiction—my pen would be the slow, inexorable force that proved what we had been: real. They asked for a demonstration

"Why keep all this?" I once asked her, fingering a jar that hummed with the color of dusk.