Hanging Witches Hats:
I look at myself in the mirror. It is not what a bride should look like: the deep dark circles under the eyes of those who have not slept in days, the emaciated and pale appearance, the general fatigue of the eyes and body … I feel like I am one hundred and twenty years old. Yet whoever chose me did it even though they didn’t know why I look like this, every morning. Whoever chose me did it for who I am, from the tips of my long brown hair to that of my little flat feet.
I hold between my fingers the only thing he is unaware of: my witch hat. It is a precious memory for me, my aunt wove it years ago when I started training, and the magical seams still prevent the soft internal silk from wearing out. That light blue has accompanied me on so many of those adventures that I even find it hard to remember … Yet today, when I cross the threshold of the church, this hat must be forgotten.
It will have to hang somewhere in my mother’s old closet, where some distant nephew of mine will find it the day he starts training. Am I ready to make this sacrifice? I could even write a letter now: ‘My love, there are so many things I haven’t told you …’, and reveal everything to him. But it would be selfish of me to set him apart from a secret that could affect our lives forever. Better if this secret can no longer exist, be erased from existence! It would probably be a relief for both of us, even if he doesn’t know it. Here, a last touch of magic, then this hour will be forgotten!
I feel that deep energy, like the spring of an underground river, emerging from under the skin of my fingers. I lightly touch my skin like the tip of a painter’s brush: the subtle blue light illuminates my pale skin, it reflects in the mirror like something alien, a fracture of the fabric of the world.
With a breath, a patina of magical frost covers my skin. It slips, melts on my cheeks like make-up after crying, and with it the fatigue flows away. Dark circles are dark spots that drip down my chin, while the shadow in my gaze is a tear, a dark drop that falls on my wedding skirt and is absorbed, invisible.
The hand flies over my hair as if enveloped in a light blanket of flames, awakens and restarts them, making them shine with a coppery reflection; as it flows over my body, it begins to fill the dress in the right places, it becomes healthier, pleasing to the eye, full and strong. The last spell will be an act of love.