Wave Your Hand

This story was originally published on Medium.

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He had many spells and potions that cleared the air, that erased negativity, that increased positivity… but would he place his hands on the windowsill and lift the window on his own? Let out the stale odors? Would he grab the pencil, flip it over in his hands, and manually erase that thing he should not have written?

He made mistakes. Every human does. Every non-human does too. Even those that live forever are far from perfect. They may be even further from perfect, given their lives carry on for so long, they’re prone to make even more mistakes. More time equals more mistakes.

But when you have spilled the juice you must grab the cloth with your hand and wipe it away with physical labor. You cannot wave around a magic wand to clear the area.

But after years and years of living on this planet, watching the centuries pass him by like a parade, he’s grown accustomed to doing things his way. He couldn’t be wrong, after all. How else could you explain his long life? How else could one live forever if they weren’t doing everything right?

His methods remained intact. His old nightstand was replete with spells and potions. Every time that drawer was slid open, the first scent that carried out was a musty, woody smell. And then on its back a thousand other smells, citrusy and herby and earthy. Even though each bottle was tightly closed up, the strong concoctions begged to be present in the nostrils of all.

A mistake would be made. Fault would not be admitted. There must have been something in the air… that was what caused this. A potion would be dabbed onto skin… or a cloth would be soaked in it and laid out by the front door, warding away the invisible evils. Perhaps a spell would be created using various ingredients and laced with words in a foreign language. The air would grow heavy with oppression. Eyes would squint as they stung from smokes and heat.

And that would be the solution.

Harm was caused. Hands were placed in the old drawer. The same smells would waft out all at once. A concoction. A brand new, pungent smell. The air was purified. The items were placed back in the drawer. The drawer would be closed. No words would be spoken of the harms caused. There was no need. Because the situation was handled with magic.

Go on. Wave your hand over broken bones and broken souls. When the neighbor dies, wave your hand over their front door. When claws have dug in and feet have stamped out the kind, illuminating light, speak not, wave your hand.

Wave your hand.

Wave goodbye.

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