An otherwise forgettable cold night in winter. That, or the kind of June evening with a cicada chorus. Either way, we were in the cabin atop the old mountain. Or it could have been my grandpa’s two-story house off the main street? Grandmother Marie was there, and we agreed that her hair in its braid meant that she was in no mood for nonsense. Right? Or was it a bun? 

I slumped in the corner in the chair, alone except for my grandpa beside me. “Come on, Marie,” my uncles or cousins chorused. “Show us the white magic.” The others, maybe ten of them total, joined in. Or did they go silent? Eventually quiet fell, except for the winter wind howling, or the cicadas. Grandmother slid a cutting glance in my direction. I did my best to let my eyelids become heavy, my frame droop. I buried my anticipation deep and it must have been convincing enough, I thought. Through shuttered eyes, I watched.

Grandmother pointed to the heavy table where they all were gathered. They’d been playing…pinochle? Poker? Something loud that left dents in the table’s hard wood surface. Grandpa made the table in his shop sometime last spring, sawdust piling like snowdrifts. On the receiving end of Grandmother’s outstretched arm, the table rose a few inches, maybe two feet off the ground. Dancing, quaking, trembling. Like the men. Her hand fell and so did the table, and the men exclaimed loudly in hushed voices. “Haven’t seen it used in years,” one onlooker said, wiping his eyes. “Feels like being home.”

Beside me in an empty chair, grandpa put a finger to his lips. Or did he wink? On the walk home, I tried to ask more. “A gift,” grandpa told me solemnly. “A serious one. Don’t waste it.”

[Marin Stratus (they/she) writes queer speculative fiction and poetry that blends lyrical prose with wry humor and wit. They live in Colorado with their wife, a codependent rescue dog, and forty‑seven houseplants whose inner lives remain a mystery. Find them at linktr.ee/stratus.]