Beware the half-light, was what her grandma used to say. ‘Tis the time of mystery and nefarious shenanigans.
Beware the broken mirror, her grandma also used to say. ‘Tis only the five minutes you have to make good.
And yet here she was, in the garden in the half-light, hacking at the hard, frozen ground with Grandma’s old trowel. Five minutes to bury the broken shards of the mirror.
Not even a crumb of earth could she dislodge.
Five minutes. More like four minutes. She must have used up at least a minute throwing salt over her left shoulder, turning around three times widdershins, and grabbing – carefully – shards of the broken mirror and running to the potting shed for Grandma’s trowel.
The wind sighed Continue reading