Today on Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen, Dead Dolly by Susan Shuman.
Until the day I die, I’ll never forget them glassy, unblinking eyes.
You know, I’d made that gris-gris—what you all call a Voodoo Doll— myself. Mawmaw taught me how when I was a kid back in Bayou Lafourche. She said that since we were direct descendants of Marie Laveau, it was our legacy. My mama died giving birth to me, so Mamaw was the only one left to teach me.
“Ma chère petite-fille, you have to know,” she said.
Shoot, Mamaw didn’t have to twist my arm! Even then, I realized the benefit of such a skill.
Daddy flipped when he found out. Pooyie, it was bad!
That’s when we moved up to Gentilly and I never did see Mamaw again.
Sonovabitch, I still miss her.
It was damn lucky for all of us ( okay, me) that there’d been enough time for her to teach me before I had to go.
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