Grandma’s Potion of Power.
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In my dream, I always knew when Grandma was brewing.
The air shifted — like the house was breathing.
Rosemary and thyme rose like green spirits, lemon cut sharp as sunlight, eucalyptus carried a calm wind through the kitchen.
That smell wasn’t just cleaning — it was a spell, a shield, a story whispered by our foremothers.
“Child,” Grandma said, her voice steady as church bells, “this batch right here? Extra potent. Gonna chase those germs clean out the corners.”
She poured golden castile soap like liquid sunlight, added shimmering witch hazel, and dropped oils from jars older than time, creating a sensory tapestry.
When she shook the bottle, the amber swirl looked alive, a storm trapped in glass.
She handed it to me with a smile that carried centuries.
“This ain’t no store-bought disinfectant. This here’s medicine, Hoodoo-style.
It kills the nasty bugs, but it also honors the spirits that keep us safe.”
I perched on the stool, watching. It was magic — and it was.
Elders teach that herbs carry ase, sacred power to heal and protect, inspiring respect and connection to tradition.
Plants are ancestors, each leaf a messenger.
Remedies aren’t just science — they’re survival, dignity, memory, and a vital part of our cultural heritage that connects us to ancestors.
Remedies aren’t just science-they’re survival, dignity, memory, and a form of resistance against erasure and neglect.
As I grew, I carried Grandma’s spray like a sword.
When sickness crept in, I misted the air, imagining myself a warrior.
Droplets sparkled like jewels, tiny shields against harm.
Cold season came, and I sprayed doorways, windows, the very air — building a fortress around my family.
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One day, I asked, “Grandma, how did you learn this?”
She laughed, eyes shining like stars.
“My grandmama taught me, and her mama before her. We Black women been keeping families alive with herbs and prayers long before doctors would see us. This formula is our heirloom, our weapon, our love.”
Her words struck like thunder.
This wasn’t cleaning — it was legacy.
Each spritz tied me to women who refused to let their families fall.
Each bottle was a chapter in a book white scholars never wrote, but our bodies remembered.
Now, when I spray my own home, I feel my ancestors walking with me.
Yoruba chants in the rustle of leaves,
Vodou songs in eucalyptus hum,
Hoodoo prayers in lemon’s sharp bite.
I know I’m carrying the torch.
And when my children come, I’ll teach them too — how to mix, how to honor, how to fight with love.
One night, mist shimmered like fireflies.
For a moment, I swore I saw shadows — women in headwraps, smiling behind me.
Were they my foremothers?
Or the potion itself, alive, reminding me the battle isn’t over?
I froze, bottle in hand, heart pounding.
The air was thick with rosemary and memory.
And I knew — the story wasn’t ending here.
The most potent remedies don’t come from the store.
They come from ancestral wisdom, herbs blessed, rituals passed down.
Healing is more than killing germs — it’s protecting spirit, honoring lineage, refusing erasure.
© 2025 Kourtney Nicole Writes™. All rights reserved.
