The Witch

Babak Lakghomi

When the power went out, we lit candles. Big shadows formed on the walls. Mom and I sat in the candle light. She curled her lips, widened her eyes, and spoke to me in a voice I’d never heard.

“I am a witch,” she whispered.

I laughed, feeling the heat of the candle flame on my skin. “No, you’re my mother,” I told her, touching my hand to her arm.

But she continued, and in the dim light, I began to wonder.

“You’re my mother,” I cried.

“I’ve been a witch all along. I only look like a person in the daylight.” She cackled.

It was only after I started to cry that she hugged me, pressing me to her chest.

“I’ll always be your mother,” she said. “Witches don’t have children.”

“I know,” I said as she stroked the teardrops from my face.