Page 131 of A Bolt of Magic

I’ve never seen such a perfect day. The sky is the clearest blue, not a single cloud marring its expanse. Sunlight filters through the leaves in dancing patterns, warming my skin and making everything glow with an almost ethereal beauty.

“Hand me that basket, dear one,” my grandmother says, and I turn to her.

I gasp, softly.

She’s exactly as I remember her from my childhood. Her hair is still more chestnut than gray, her back straight and strong, her eyes bright with intelligence and mischief. The frailty that had consumed her, the confusion that clouded her mind, all of it is gone. She moves with the easy grace of someone decadesyounger, reaching up to pluck the ripest fruit from the higher branches.

“You look beautiful, Grandmother,” I say, passing her the woven basket.

She smiles, that same warm expression that always made me feel like the most important person in the world. “I feel wonderful, sweetheart. Better than I have in years.”

We work side by side, filling the basket with the perfect fruit. A butterfly with wings of brilliant blue and black flutters past my face, landing briefly on a nearby peach before dancing away on the warm breeze.

“We’re going to make the most incredible peach pie,” I say, carefully placing another fruit in my basket. “And preserves, too. Remember how you used to let me help you in the kitchen? You’d let me stir the jam while you told me stories about the old days.”

“I remember everything about those times,” she says softly. “They were some of my happiest memories, McColl. You brought such joy to my life. I need you to know that.”

I reach for a particularly perfect peach, its skin soft and warm from the sun. My mouth waters just looking at it. The fruit is so ripe I can smell its sweetness. I pluck it from the tree, bringing it toward my lips, ready to take that first delicious bite. Ready to feel juices run down my chin.

“No, dear one,” my grandmother says gently, her hand covering mine. “The fruit is not for you.”

I look at her in confusion as she takes the peach from my hands, placing it carefully back in the basket.

“There are so many,” I tell her. “Surely I can have one peach?”

“Not today.” Then she moves to stand directly in front of me, taking both of my hands in hers. Her skin is warm and soft, exactly as I remember.

“I am so proud of you,” she says, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Look at the woman you’ve become. So brave, so kind, so willing to sacrifice everything for your people and for love. You’ve grown into everything I always knew you could be.”

“Grandmother, I don’t understand—”

“It’s not your time yet, my darling girl,” she continues, her grip on my hands tightening slightly. “You have so much life ahead of you, so much love to give and receive. So much good to do in this world.”

“What do you mean?” Confusion clouds my thoughts. “What are you talking about?”

She smiles, reaching up to cup my cheek with one weathered hand. “Follow your dreams, McColl. Don’t be afraid to follow your heart, either.”

“Grandmother, you’re scaring me. Why are you talking like this?”

“I will always be a part of you,” she says, ignoring my question. “Always. When you need strength, when you need guidance, when you need to remember who you are – I’ll be there. Right here.” She places her hand over my heart. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too,” I whisper. “But—”

“No buts. All is well,” she says, her voice taking on that soothing tone she used when I was small and frightened. “Everything is exactly as it should be. Trust me, dear heart. Everything is going to be just fine.”

She looks at me with such love, such tenderness that my heart feels like it might burst.

“Close your eyes now,” she whispers. “It’s time.”

“Time for what?” I ask as I close my eyes.

I feel it instantly. It’s a rush of warmth that starts where our hands are joined and spreads slowly through my entire body. I hadn’t realized until this moment how cold I was, how the chillhad seeped into my very bones. But now, warmth flows through me like warm honey, chasing away the cold, filling all the empty places inside me.

The warmth grows stronger, more intense, spreading from my fingertips to my toes. It’s like being wrapped in the most comfortable blanket on the coldest winter night, like sitting beside a roaring fire after coming in from a blizzard.

But even as the wonderful warmth fills me, sadness begins to bloom in my chest. Deep, inexplicable sorrow that grows stronger with each passing moment. I don’t understand because I’m having the most perfect day with my grandmother.

The warmer I become, the sadder I feel, until the grief threatens to tear me apart entirely. Something precious is slipping away, something I’ll never get back, and I can’t stop it no matter how much I long to.

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