It sits there on the stovetop like a centerpiece to the kitchen. The worn handles are a testament to its service, its memory etched into iron. Darker than coal, it carries more than just meals to fill our stomach—it carries magic, memory, and something deeper. It was passed down to my mother from hers, and so on for generations. The women before me have held onto its handles, they have filled its body with life. They have stirred in their own heartache, their hopes, their remedies into its depths— spells passed down in secret sips.

This pot can do much more than feed the family. _It can heal the sick._