Granny Firesight

Granny sat rocking, apron still dusted in flour, eyes fixed on the ridge where sparks flickered against the dark.
“Funny thing about light,” she said, “you can see it from a dozen porches, and it still shines the same. Some’ll call it Christ, some’ll call it Goddess, some’ll call it Moon or Science. Doesn’t matter. The truth don’t change just ‘cause the tongues naming it do. It’s the same fire, sugar, just seen from different hills.”
She leaned forward, voice dropping low. “Now, don’t be scared when you see folks crumbling, lantern glass breaking, smoke curling. That ain’t the end of ‘em—it’s the false shine burning out. Manufactured light don’t last. But what’s real? That fire was always in the coals.”
The ridge flared brighter, and Granny waved her hand toward it. “See what’s happening there? Fire looks like destruction, but it’s medicine. All that dead brush that choked the ground? Fire sweeps it clean. The ash left behind—it’s food, rich with minerals. The soil eats good after a burn.
And some seeds—Lord, they won’t even wake up till fire cracks their shells. Fire’s their midwife. You’ll see wildflowers quiltin’ the hillside come spring, colors stitched out of the very flames you thought killed it. Even roots that look dead? Fire shakes ‘em awake. New shoots rise up stronger. Bugs, sickness, rot—they all get cleared out. That’s science talkin’, but it’s also spirit, if you’ve got ears to hear.”
She rocked slow, her gaze lifting from the ridge to the night sky above. “And it ain’t just this hillside burnin’. Look yonder.” The Moon hung swollen and red, blood-colored from Earth’s shadow. “That eclipse? It’s the sky’s way of doin’ the same—pullin’ secrets into the open, burnin’ away what don’t belong. Saturn’s draggin’ us back over old lessons, Uranus stirrin’ the pot, Neptune and Pluto too—all them big ol’ planets walkin’ backwards, makin’ us turn inward. Then comes the solar eclipse in Virgo, knockin’ on our need for order. And the equinox—day and night standin’ equal, like the whole Earth’s paused to breathe. Even Saturn’s at its brightest this month, showin’ us how boundaries can shine if we see ‘em right.”
She tapped her rocker arm like a gavel. “So whether it’s the ridge, the sky, or your own heart—don’t think the burnin’ means it’s over. It means the new growth’s already on its way. Truth’s bein’ spoken in church pews, in pagan circles, in quiet kitchens—and it all comes from the same light. What’s false burns, what’s true endures, and out of the ashes comes medicine.”
Granny’s gaze dropped from the sparks to the valleys lying dark beneath. Her rocker creaked as she shook her head.
“Down yonder,” she said, “you’ll still find the blind ones—heads of state, kings of nothing—swingin’ their swords in the dark. Warring over shadows, deaf to the fire catchin’ on the ridges. They think their smoke-filled lanterns are the sun itself, when all they’ve got is a jar of soot.”
She spat into the dirt, not in anger but in plain truth. “Let ‘em fight their ghost wars. Fire don’t need their permission. The medicine’s already risin’ in the burns they can’t even see. Valleys flood. Ridges stand. And this ridge here?” She leaned back, eyes glinting with mischief, “it’s already blazing with tomorrow.”
Then she chuckled, patting her apron. “And when the ground shakes under all this sky-fire, child, I just do what I’ve always done—I fry chicken. Had me two meals of it today. Grease poppin’, skillet singin’, steadyin’ my bones while the world quivers. That’s how I keep my feet planted while the sparks fly.”
The ridge spat another shower of sparks, and Granny slapped her knee with a laugh that shook her whole frame.
“Wooooo!” she hollered,
as fire and sky answered back, while the valleys below stayed blind in their shadows.