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Of Sunshine and Samhain | What the Cat Told the Raven

Of Sunshine & Samhain

And Other Things my Grandmothers Taught Me

All was quiet in the night,
As the dead leaves stirred.
The Goddess watched on high, 
As the lines of vision blurred. 

A flicker of a candle,
A whisper in the dark. 
The groaning of the ancient earth,
As Samhain leaves its mark. 

Much was laid to rest tonight,
Far much more awoke,
As the wind howled deep & low,
And promises were spoke. 

Deep within the mirror’s glass,
Danced shadows that I spied,
And as the veil slipped back into its place,
I heard you humming on the other side.

Blessed Samhain, what power you bring. What magick. What alchemy.

All lays to rest in the autumn. This is the time of the Quieting, of the hush that rolls in clouds and mists and whispered chill. The leaves dance with the wind on their way home to the dark earth, and the Crone of the deep woods walks beneath the ever-growing night. Quiet now, sleep now.

I don’t give much thought to my ancestors, to those with whose blood I share that reach far back into time, past the well-known borders of memory. I wish to know them, to feel their spirits, but I fear I won’t know how to recognise them. How will I know their voices if I have never heard their words? How will I know their presence when I have never witnessed their essence? What if I think it’s them but it isn’t? What if I think that it isn’t, but it is? Oh, to know, the roots of these bones and this blood.

When I sink into the long-living energy of my bones and blood, I know I am of the earth. I feel stardust and firewood and sweet, sweet petrichor.

A symphony of crows hidden in the windy forest.
The divine incense of sacred smoke & rich, wet earth.

When I look to my bloodline, my direct descent of humanity upon this plane, I think of my grandmothers. One French-Canadian, one Mediterranean. Small but strong matriarchs who taught me more than they ever knew.

I wasn’t as close to my French grandmother as I would have liked. She sadly passed after a long walk with illness when I was 10 years old. Because she was my father’s mother, and I lived with my mother, I didn’t see her often. Most of my time spent with her was in my very early childhood. We didn’t get much time, but my memories of her are strong. Interestingly, they’re more memories of her home than herself. I remember Christmas most: her small townhouse overrun with grandchildren, her own four children and their spouses talking animatedly over drinks and sweets, the air filled with music and twinkling lights (Christmas in the early 90’s was a vibe; you had to be there). She always made time to chat with each of us, asking us about our days, always smiling. She loved when we tried to speak French. I wonder if she and I would have had entire conversations in it now, had we been allowed to grow together.

I always remember her smiling. Remember her accent. And her vanity. Her makeup vanity in her room was like a piece of old Hollywood. Three mirrors. Big, globe bulbs down each side. Lipsticks, pans, perfumes. Champagne by Yves Saint Laurent. Poison by Dior. I would love to sit in front of those mirrors, imagining being a fabulous woman someday. Like her. I wonder what she would think of me now.

When she passed, her husband, my grandfather, gifted me her collection of pencil crayons (I hadn’t known she liked art), her perfumes, and her jewellery box, with everything in it. Each piece is like a piece of her. A piece of a memory I’ll never get to ask her about. One memory I do have, is of giant peacock feathers in a vase in her home. I think they were in the dining room, upstairs looking out over the living room. I once had real peacock feathers gifted to me that I kept in memory of her.

I wonder sometimes if she visits me. If she would be proud of me. What we might make of each other now. I look a little like her. I always wish her well.

I would not be me without my Mediterranean grandmother. The lush garden of my imagination flourished under her skilled hands. Her home was a magical place. She always had time to play. In the wake of her empty nest, she had turned one of the upstairs bedrooms into a music room, with her acoustic guitar, keyboard, and shelves of books. I would spend hours in there, with Spider-Man and The Ninja Turtles and Sesame Street. Sometimes the Berenstain Bears. We would sleepover in that room, in vintage (even then) orange sleeping bags, with industrial metal zippers that could take your arm off. They always smelled the same, like her house. They were on small cots, a few inches above the carpet, and we always had a flashlight next to us, to help us find our way to the bathroom (directly across the hall). She taught us how to make their lights dance across the walls like fairies. She would play her guitar and sing us Puff the Magic Dragon. She loved magic. She always sang her own version of “Good Morning” from Singin’ In The Rain to wake us up before breakfast (“Good morning, good morning. How are you this morning? Good morning, good morning, to you.”).

On warm days, she would take our little hands and walk us around her backyard, introducing us to all of her animal friends: a lovingly curated collection of garden decor. We would say hello to Mrs. Raccoon and Mr. Owl and their neighbours. The birds were real, and we would always greet Mr. Jay and Mr. Robin. Her rec room in the basement was for us, filled with craft and art supplies, and a motley crew of random toys in a big cardboard box. She would teach us new activities, adorn the space with our art, play hide and seek. She loved building forts. Christmas always involved crackers and paper crowns, and her big tinselled tree with red bows. Dancing around to Christmas music.

She never made us feel silly or out of place. We were always welcome there. As I got older, I took that magical world for granted. To know then what I know now, I would have appreciated her so much more. I would have told her what she meant to me; what she did for me. My teens were such a dark time. I was so lost, and I shut everyone out.

As I got into my 20’s, I started visiting her on my own, outside of family events. Those memories mean the world to me. Watching I Love Lucy. The Waltons. The tail end of Murder, She Wrote. I remember sitting in her armchairs in the front room, our feet up on the ottoman, sipping tea and chatting. Sitting at her kitchen table while she hummed at the sink, the sunlight through the windows making her glow. The sound of the floor gently creaking under the hall carpet as she walked. I always hear her humming. She loved music.

She lost her lifelong love, my grandfather, one month before their 50th anniversary. Less than two years later, just over a month before my 26th birthday, she joined him. I’ll never forget my aunt calling me from the hospital, telling me the time was close. Asking me if I wanted to say anything. That she would hold the phone to her. I found myself suddenly out of time. There was never enough time. Through my tears, I said the only thing I thought of: “Thank you. Thank you so much, for the beautiful life you gave me.” My aunt said she nodded. She heard me. Soon after, she was gone. I had over two decades with her, and it was never going to be long enough.

She taught me to love magic. To love music. To take a house and make it a home. To take life and make it a song. To appreciate sunshine and good friends. I miss her everyday. Her cackling laugh. Her Chanel No. 5. Her humming. I always hear her humming.

Shortly after she passed, I had a dream of her, sitting at a picnic table by a baseball diamond in a park somewhere, next to my other grandmother, laughing together. Laughing so hard they fell into each other. I like to think they found each other over there. Wherever “there” is. I never got to ask my French grandmother what she thought of death. My Mediterranean grandmother wished and wished to come back as a mermaid, to return to the ocean she loved so much. She worried it was against her Christian beliefs, but in a sweet and heartfelt letter from one of her cousins, she was assured that God would not mind.

I wonder, most days, what my grandmothers would think of the woman I’ve become. I wonder if they would be proud. I wonder if they cried when I suffered, or sighed when I failed. I think of my Mediterranean grandmother most. My maternal grandmother. My direct matriarchal line. Is she happy where she is? Sometimes I imagine her back in her house, sipping tea in the front room with a well-worn romance novel. Sometimes I wonder if she’s back in Malta, dancing on the beach with her husband, the handsome white Canadian boy who swept her off her feet. Sometimes I smell her Chanel, and I know she’s close by. I wish so much that she was here. That she could see what I’ve become. That I overcame all of the things we used to talk about. I know she would have loved my partner. It breaks my heart that she will never meet him. Never see how happy I am.

I still have my French grandmother’s jewellery box and most of its contents. When my Mediterranean grandmother passed, my aunt asked what I wanted from her house, before the vultures of the family circled in. I asked only for a red photo album in the hall closet, that documented she and my grandfather’s first year of marriage. It had my favourite photos of them in it. Not only did I get that, I got their wedding album, and the set of armchairs and ottoman from the front room, where so many conversations took place over the decades they sat there. The fire that destroyed my apartment a couple of years ago took their perfumes and the peacock feathers with it. The jewellery box and photo albums had already safely moved. I’ve since purchased small peacock feathers for my French grandmother, and I found an empty bottle of my Mediterranean grandmother’s Chanel, that still holds its strong scent. Both bring me comfort. So does reading in one of my armchairs, a hot beverage nearby. Sometimes I hum.

I lost my French many years ago, but I’m starting to learn it again. It helps me feel closer to my paternal grandmother and the Acadian blood that I know so little about. I don’t know if I’ll ever learn Maltese, but every time I feel strong, and secure, and at peace, I think of my maternal grandmother.

I had a visitor while writing this. A black spider that I now know to be a Parson Spider, crawled across the wall next to my desk, much to my horror. I appreciate spiders, but they make my skin crawl outside of my control. Spiritually, I see them always as feminine, goddess creatures, often representing communication and weaving. This one felt like a messenger. Like a quick hello. Appropriate for the task at hand. So, skin in a maelstrom, I carefully trapped it in a container and released it into the backyard, shuddering my way back inside. Thank you for the hello, much appreciated, many blessings, good luck on your journey.

The sky has darkened as I’ve written, grey clouds rolling in on a wind of dark and golden leaves. The earth hums as the veil thins. I feel the familiar call to the outside, to the trees and magic in the air. My blood and bones are of this earth, and they are of women, strong women, who taught me laughter, beauty, magic, and music. I will honour them at this time of Samhain, with wine and whiskey and candlelight. With photos. And so many memories. I will feel them close, I will thank them, I will bow to their spirits. And I will let them rest once more.

And then I will rest.

It is safe to rest.

Quiet now.

Bon soir, Mamère. Goodnight, Grandy.

I love you.

Your granddaughter,

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