Little Witch In A Pink House

She wasn’t a typical witch, but her magic was real

I walked by the witch’s house every afternoon on the way home from kindergarten. I knew a witch lived there because all the children talked about it in hushed voices. They said she only came out at night, and if she ever saw a little girl or boy close by, she would turn them into a ceramic creature for her garden. I was terrified but fascinated by the place. I would stand there, with my plastic, Care Bear lunch box in one hand and my Dairy Queen trapper keeper in the other and just stare.

It did not look like the typical home of a witch. It was a small trailer, painted bubblegum pink. Fake flowers were stuffed into its edges, bursting out in a rainbow of color, and the door was painted in beautiful curly Q’s. Old, wrought iron table and chairs, that looked like they were made of lace, were spray painted white and set for an invisible tea party. Ceramic gnomes of all kinds frolicked past sun bleached toadstools that shaded a menagerie of tiny animals and moss. There was so much to see; I never failed to discover something new before being pulled out of my daydreams by the sound of my mom calling me from the end of our drive.

One day, while staring at the glittery curtains that shimmered in the window, I was surprised to see a face staring back at me. I was so startled that I dropped everything and ran home as fast as my chubby, little legs could take me. I ran past my mom at the door, past the dining room table that was set with a fresh baked loaf of bread for my afternoon snack, and right into my room.

The doorbell rang, and I hid under my blankets and pillows, sure that it was the witch. I was certain that I would soon live in her garden, watching with stony eyes as happier children walked by. I heard the far away mumbling of grownup voices, sprinkled with my mom’s laughter. Did she not know that her daughter would soon be gone forever? I imagined my mother, standing in my spot on the sidewalk, staring at the ceramic gnome version of me, and I began to cry.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, I woke to the comfortable weight and warmth of my mom sitting on the edge of my bed. She touched my forehead with her cool palm. I kept my eyes closed while she tucked my blanket around me and walked softly from the room.

When I opened my eyes, my lunchbox and trapper keeper were sitting neatly on my dresser. I walked over to the dresser and saw a beautifully designed paper folded into the shape of a swan. I picked it up and unfolded it gingerly. Inside was a note that read: “I have returned the items you dropped. I hope we can be friends. You are a very nice young lady.” The letters were beautifully written in very fancy cursive. The only problem was that I only knew how to read printed letters. I thought that it was a spell!

I dropped the swan, ran to the living room, and bumped right into the witch! She’d been there all along! Maybe she had put a sleeping spell on me and hypnotized my mom. Mom? Where was mom? I looked around desperately, but it was just me and the witch.

I looked the witch over. She did not look very wicked to me. She was short, with wild white hair that flew in wisps around her face. She was wearing a soft, pink sweat suit with kittens on its front and bunny slippers. Her eyes were a bright blue, and very twinkly, deep set in long-used laugh lines. She smiled under my scrutiny and winked at me. Suddenly she made a silly face, sticking out her tongue. I could not help laughing, and she laughed, too. From then on, when I passed her house on the way home from school, I looked in the window for her. It never failed that she would be there, sticking her tongue at me.

When I asked about her years later, Mom said my witch been a very lonely woman, whose family was long gone. Mom had never seen the witch in the pink house come outside until that day she came over with my school things.

I could not say how many warm afternoons I spent sitting at the witch’s fancy tables, having milk and Oreos or helping her dig around and replace fresh fake flowers for those that had faded. She made me dolls, and gave me little trinkets that she collected over the years. She told me stories about her childhood and what the world was like when she was a young woman.

That little pink trailer became my second home until we moved away. To this day, I don’t know her name. What I do know is she was my friend, and she was a good witch.