Last night was not elegant. Regardless of what westernized brand of pagan you are, there are certain elements you’re going to find in most rituals–candles, possibly a circle of some sort, something smelly (in this case incense), and something liquid (in this case water).
My candles wouldn’t stay lit and since I was using them to mark the boundaries of my circle, it meant my circle didn’t stay closed. I burned myself on the incense and the orange cat decided to drink out of the water. Apparently it is the greatest water ever, even though it came from the very same tap his water always comes out of.
And then nothing remotely woo came of it, except that, for the second night in a row, the two-hour log I got at Foodland burned for three and a half hours. Which, fine, but if I’d known that these were so long burning, I would have started them when I got home from work, not when I was ready to start things.
So, I didn’t feel it. And I ended up spending the evening with my grandpa’s tooth, which I have in a bag in with all my other woo woo crap. It’s weird. It really struck me last night that this is it of him. The last of him that there is left to touch. You don’t normally touch a tooth gently, but I found myself running my finger along the jagged edges of the root wondering how long that tooth–the last of Hick–might last.
As far as I know, there are no other body parts of his floating around, which means I am the only person who still regularly touches any part of my grandpa. And whoever I give that tooth to, should I have a niece or nephew who wants it, they will have never known him.
And that’s for better and for worse.
Which I guess is why I still like to spend time with him every once in a while, to try to figure out how to understand the truth of that.