after Victoria Chang

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I resurrected my long-dead beloved Grandma Caroline with my first ancestral altar. My hoodoo took the shape of her. And she took the shape of me. I began making important decisions with Caroline in tow. We talked frequently. Over morning tea, she gifted me with wisdom on the secrets to Black survival and how to trick Johns like an OG conjure-woman. She introduced me to divination and our lineage of psychics, made me privy to my own razor-sharp claircognizance. My grandma promised tarot and playing card reading as my birthright. I gave the most precious parts of my life over to Spirit. I made her responsible for my finances and slicked my hands and wrists with money oil. I grew richer. My community quadrupled. I started saying, Oh, chile! when life weighed me down. As her true descendent, I trifled with mental illness until it became a serious pastime. I straddled between her paranoid psychosis and agoraphobia for years until I could don them both at the same time. They suited me well. I adapted her tenderness. That part was tricky! At first, I didn’t cry for two years, then, possessed by her, oh Caroline, I cried all the time. I cried at anything. My face, arms, and ass got fatter until I resembled every woman on my dad’s side who had come before me. My hips spread, and I baked biscuits from scratch. I upped my butter intake. I finally learned to season chicken. From its delicate infancy, my conjure grew until it was vast enough to amulet generations in both directions. I exhumed the body of every ancestor I had ever loved and mastered the art of the marionette and ventriloquism. This isn’t even me typing. This isn’t even my real body.