Generational Fuckery

My grandmother fucked around with the same ley lines that I did.

There is a place on the old west side of Colorado Springs where the air feels old and slow, and everything outside the area seems dull and muffled, as if on the other side of a window. I used to think this weird energy was produced by the cemetery there, but it is not. Ley lines intersect there, and this is why the weird shit happens.

My great-great grandmother lived a block from the cemetery and she spoke with the dead. They would rock in her wooden rocking chair at night and roll plates across the floor. Other family members feared her for it, and they still whisper about it four generations later.

I do not know if this interest skipped my great grandmother or not. As a child we went to see her once a week, but I spent my visits there outside, feeling, even at the time, that I was absorbing the air’s weird vibrations. My great grandmother died before my adulthood, and I never asked her things I should have.

Just yesterday, my mother told me that my grandmother had mentioned, in passing, the ley lines that cross by the house where she grew up. The fact that my grandma even has any idea what a ley line is blows my mind, not to mention that she knows exactly where they are. Even more importantly, she and her friend, Rosie, fucked around with their energy.

If we skip to about ten years ago, not knowing any of this, my dumb ass insisted that my boyfriend and I rent a place near “this weird old cemetery.” I waited months for a place to open up, and we moved into a duplex about two blocks away from this same cemetery. As I mentioned before, I thought the bizarre energy of the area came from the cemetery. Like any self-respecting human being would, I spent my time there fucking around with this energy.

There were shadow people here. There were ghosts. I had strangely prophetic dreams. Here, I learned to channel the land. I learned how to truly listen. I met a young man who had been 17 when he’d died in 1911 who couldn’t remember his name, but he suggested that I pick up the fallen sticks from the tree right next to his grave that had been recently hit by lightning.

My boyfriend and I got married and, when I found out I was pregnant some time later, we moved. It had been my idea, but I still cried for a month.

Two years ago, I took my kids to this cemetery under the pretense of making grave rubbings. My daughter, however, did not make any. Instead, she sat on top of some of the grave markers and just stared at the sky. Absorbing.

Recently, she’s started asking me when we’re going to go back to the cemetery. She was four when we went and she still has a very vivid memory of it at six and wants to return.

Meanwhile, the ley lines at the cemetery roll their eyes. Jesus Christ, another one of these bitches.

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