Aberration

I went to a shack deep in the woods that belonged to an old woman who grew her own medicine. I told her I’ve made mistakes and I couldn’t even continue with the reason why I was sick. I didn’t have say no more. She stood up from her rickety wooden chair, with her crooked cane and hobbled towards her shelf of mason jars filled with thick, foggy, liquids and whole seeds and berries. Jars with different colors of thick sludge and God knows what floating in clear fluid. Her thick, long white mane fell at her waist and her brown, wrinkled hands shook with arthritis as she reached for a jar filled with grass and seeds. “Rain must be coming” I thought to myself. The old woman winced as she sat the jar down and before she could get up the nerve to go through the pain of twisting the tight lid off, I did it for her. Easy as pie. She smiled and pinched my cheeks. She placed a small jar in front of me, took a soup spoon and scooped two big hefty portions of the grass and seeds into it. I closed the lid tight for her on the small jar and on the mason jar. She winked at me. “Put a teaspoon of this in a cup, filled with hot water. Don’t add anything to it. Not sugar, not honey, not lemon. Drink it straight. Drink a cup every hour. By day three the little monkey should drop out.” I took the jar and ran home in shame.