I had to recharge magic again, so I went to one of my very favourite witching places: The medieval city of Aachen. It’s a place where magic happens. Always.
I went there with my witch giggling loudly in the back of my head, begging me for a poem, because I had been ignoring her for too long.
I got distracted.
Next to writing a lot of assignments for my master’s degree in progress, I have also recently been through a lot of check-ups ever since my asthma occurred this spring, and I wished for the call-backs to finally stop, and for my blood results to return to normal. For 5 months they had been calling me back, and on that Monday, I fearfully waited for another call.
I went to a café I had been to once before the pandemic, and I mean right before it. The last day before lockdown. It had been an afternoon that had made me seek magic, break my own heart, and summon my witch.
Now I decided to go back, order a coffee, sit in the same corner and sulk in memories, anxiously eyeing my phone.
I replayed conversations in my head, moved lips as I enjoyed the memory of saying these things. I enjoyed the dream of kisses that were stolen by the plague, but happened years later. All while sitting an elegant bistro chair and watching the busy and narrow streets of Aachen’s old city around me. I suddenly remembered that 5 years ago in February, I had worn black leather pants and a blue blouse, and my hair had been much shorter, which was the result of an odd nervous breakdown the previous summer. Now, I was wearing a dark floral dress, and my hair was hip long. Oh, and I got my kisses back that were promised to me here in this magical place.
I tried to make my soul sing the melody of these old memories. I am not sure if I succeeded, but I have felt something to make me smile with tears rising.
And once 4 PM had passed, I realized that no doctor’s call had come.
As I said, Aachen is a magical place.
Mistress witch writes 