We’d sit as quiet as clouds, chattering about this or that or about absolutely nothing at all, while making tinctures from medicinal plants, storing them in bottles, for people needing them:

Bee balm for sore throats and diarrhea;
feverfew cures fevers and chills; the outer husks
of black walnut to make an anti-inflammatory cure;
dandelions to cleanse the liver; prickly burdock
for sore throats; chickweed fixes upset stomachs.

I used to go out into the restorative fields with my grandmother, reciting that list.

Basil to reduce pain and swelling.
Lavender helps with depression,
or as she called it, “down in the valley of the heart.”
“Yellow nasturtiums,” she insisted,
“placed the sun’s healing light” for falls’ colds,
violent sneezing, and deep fevers.

I make these healing memories, weaving years of good and bad days. Days when arthritis kicked her down, made her groan distant thunder. I’d add natural peppermint to her tea. I’d massage her joints, hearing each creek and crackle release, like old tongue-and-groove floorboards when a house starts to feel its age.

And when she died, I used a sagebrush to whisk away any harmful spirits.

I buried her among heliotrope, rose-a-Sharon, and volunteer periwinkles. The ground was damp from fall rain. I mumbled therapeutic plants from memory, promising never to forget their names and purpose:

Red clover settles hormonal balance;
Stinging nettle for cramps;
Oregano tinctures heal cuts, scratches, and wounds.
I wondered if oregano cured a wounded heart.

Words kept raining from my mouth. Recipes for the heart. The cure for your sadness.

Just in case, let me give you a tincture of St. John’s wort.