Go Forth the Witch

 There was once a woman weighed down. She felt the weight of her cares as strong as if she were Atlas himself, though perhaps her sky was a different one. Atlas' heavens might carry the fear of wars, chaos and the troubles of the gods, but his purpose was decided and though his shoulder might wrench, he would carry on. The woman, on the other hand, did not carry the cares of a purpose, for she was lost in crowds, and little did anyone care if either she had a purpose or if she did not.

    Her responsibilities, what little of them that were allowed her, were filled with small decisions that ate away at her until she herself grew quite small.

    Then came a day when she wandered the woods and met a witch. 

    The witch had, quite naturally, a cottage. It was filled with potions and poultices and remedies of all sorts. Her scrubbed oak table was laden with tinctures that were passed off to various people throughout the day. Though she garnered respect, it was tinged with fear. The woman did not like that the witch was feared. Though brusque, the witch was a kindly soul, and her burden to care for anyone who came into her path was too heavy to be only subject to side-long glances, quick replies, and those who walked by her walking a little more to one side or the other than a walker might ordinarily employ.

    The woman walked right next to the witch, and at at her table, learned her recipes. 

    After a week, the woman was only partially bent under cares.

    After a month, the cares had been largely forgotten.

    After a year, she called the witch friend, while working remedies at the oak table.

    After five years, the woman was a witch herself.

    After a lifetime, the woman died without a care in the world.  

    And might the moral be, let us all be witches? Yes.