Calling Out To The Dead

I call out to the dead and the dead call out to me.

There was a time when I was walking down the hall and I smelled her perfume. And I didn’t know what to do. So I stood there, patiently. As though she might round the corner to say hello. I closed my eyes and waited. The smell lingered. The scent was unmistakable.

Jasmine.

I wanted to hold onto that feeling, that whisper. I wanted to bring it deep into my chest to the carved out place, the empty space that holds her memory. As though it might smooth it or fill it or make it somehow…better.

And there was the day when I saw him in the clouds. The way they moved over the blue and across the above. His smile, his laugh, his way of looking into you.

The song that played on the radio.

Or the meow I heard in the empty room. The sound of foot pads on wooden floors.

The dead call out.

Beckoning Memory

As a Witch, there’s something comforting about death and the cycle of life. There’s something about knowing how things will turn and turn back and turn forward. It’s less of a loss and more of a movement.

A movement toward and through, steps that fade while still leaving a path.

I call out to memory, to the all around. The dead are never gone. They are right here.

For me, anyway.

I call to them with an altar that now has too many pictures on it. So many that I fear it will fall over.

I call to them in the quiet spaces.

I call to them in the moments between then and not yet.

I call to them.

Ancestors, Beloved Dead, Mighty Dead, those of blood and bone, those of memory and imagination, nameless ones, known ones.

I am listening.

I invite your wisdom, your perspective, and your deep knowing.

I welcome your guidance.

I hear you.