Roey L. Leonardi
So I call her double-mother, and for life I owe her twofold, or more. My debt to her is pleated infinitely, like the skirts of the floral chair in her living room. When I was little, I’d hide beneath the wooden coffee table and play with her orange and blue Dala horses, the clacking of their lacquered legs muffled by the cream carpet.
I wish I could pinpoint what exactly it is that keeps me coming back. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that Waffle House will welcome six bleary-eyed high school seniors who can’t help but order the entire menu on a Saturday night, just as it will welcome families the next day in their Sunday best and truckers who’ve driven across countless state lines the night after that.
In order to avoid another significant bill, Jordan opted to Uber off-campus to Mount Auburn Hospital, accompanied by her roommate. She received a taxi voucher from UHS for her trip back to campus, but when it failed to summon a taxi for “three to four hours,” she ended up returning to campus around 7 a.m. with HUPD.
We’re stuck behind a cluster of middle-aged women clad in black tulle and felt witch hats. It’s early on a Friday evening in Salem, Mass., and after unsuccessfully trying to locate the Psychic Fair and Witch’s Market, which we traveled 26.2 miles to visit, we decide it’s a safe bet to follow the gaggle of witches.