They were talking about death at Nana’s eightieth birthday party. I sat on her lap. “She won’t die, she is a witch,” one of her friends said, cackling.
I looked up; Nana gave me a tired smile. She was already dying, but the spark in her eyes made me think of a blaze that had been burning for centuries.
Soon I dressed like her. I talked like her, ate like her.
Then she died.
Now all I can do is watch. As if looking up from a bottomless well, and choking with tears, I watch the witch living my life.
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