Miso Soup

You ask me for a spell. A winter spell, warm breath on frosted window. You ask the wrong conjurer. Only once I tried to breathe life into gathering cold. But I coughed and spluttered and all light extinguished in my echoing gasps. I would not put your faith in my witchcraft.

I thought myself such an alchemist. Melt the icy tumors into glowing gold broth. I made you miso soup. Such reassuring steam tumbling from the pot when I stepped inside from the blizzard and cracked the lid. Healing. Comfort. The vapor whispered. You took gulp after gulp, a rare return of your former appetite. And we smiled at our clever machinations. Confident in the quotidian sorcery of soup.

We were all so confident. The warlocks and their needles nodded in time to every drip, drop, scalding acid in your veins. Burn away the dark. Corrode the cloud condensing. Of course you have years to live. What do you want for Christmas.

Do you ever sit in a car in December and watch ice fractals take form on the windows? Slowly at first. And then frenzy. Too late for moist heaves of breath too late for windshield wipers too late for frantic swipes of coat sleeves. The freeze is set. Pray you have gas left to ignite the beast to thaw.

Did we forget the eye of newt? The dragon’s blood? The ancient incantation to brew and bubble away all your toil and trouble? What pathetic shamans we were to think ourselves any match for your skin going cold.

What do you do with ashes in the middle of winter. No living root to nourish. Soil solid unyielding, no pliance for embrace. What to do with your gifts beneath the tree. What to do with the last serving of miso, faithful, still waiting in the pot.

My breath, powerless, freezes as I stand alone in the cold. Ask me for no more spells. I am but a charlatan.