Grandma collected geodes. When she cracked them, instead of crystals, the stones contained small, exotic worlds.
Some called her a witch. I call them jealous.
Who could reject a tiny world occupied by three sleeping owls? Or a beach littered with sand dollars the size of a baby’s thumbnail?
She gifted her treasures to people with wounded souls.
Until today, I’d never received one.
Papa hands me a velvet-coated box. “She saved this one for you.” He nestles the box in my shaky hands.
Inside the geode? The scent of lilacs and a wee fairy with Grandma’s enchanting smile.
Up From the Ashes 