The Leaf

My grandmother was a myth, until I was 11 years old. Spoken of, but not a human inhabitant of this world. She was more like a demi-god, banished from the mortal realm for all the pain and suffering she caused.
“Your grandmother,” my mom always called her, as if she would be free of the witch’s curse without me. The guilt was heaving, weighing down my small frame, so I strengthened myself by painting and drawing. Quiet things that wouldn’t remind my mom of her curse.
“It’s alright,” the pencil would whisper to me as I sketched a forest of magical creatures to protect me.
Then, I woke up from that dream and met my grandmother.
She was younger than I expected. She reminded me of a school principal than the white-haired, crocheting grannies I’d seen on TV. And she was sad.
“Your mother loses control sometimes,” she said as I unpacked my duffel bag of clothes into the empty drawer of her guest bedroom. “She’s going away for a little while, until she is strong enough to be your mother again.”
Mom had been transformed into “your mother,” just as “your grandmother” shapeshifted into “Nanny Kat” before me. I still felt like a leaf, caught in the wind storm their spells whipped up.