William S. Speare

Two days after we met, Murmur Lee stopped by the trailer unexpectedly. She stood on my stoop in her tight jeans and tight tee, batting those sapphire blues, balancing a willow basket on the whispering curve of her hip.

“Hey,” she said. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I think you’re in need of some soup. Your chakras are under siege.”

“My chakras are under siege? Good God, girl, what in the hell are you talking about?”

She claimed I knew what she was talking about, and she bustled on in and set me a place at my own supper table and served me up homemade who-the-hell-knows-what’s-in-it soup. She sprinkled some kind of powder that she claimed she ground from the root of a plant she discovered in the hammock.

Before dipping the spoon in the bowl and bringing it to my lips, I asked, “Are you some sort of a witch?”

She reached over and touched my hair. She gazed at me—steady and confident—and said, “No. I’m simply a good woman.”