I got the text around 4 pm at work. “He doesn’t have cancer!” my partner exulted, delivering the news about his mother’s beloved that we’d waited for all week.
I hadn’t been emotional about the possibility until that very moment, holding my phone in my palm and staring at those blessed words. I wanted to cry for relief, no matter my coworkers around me. That evening, my partner and I picked up a bottle of good red wine: I had promised Her, and She had given me that piercing look that said She heard.
Today is the Feast of the Drunkenness of the Eye of Ra. Today I feel Sekhmet close, blood-toothed and laughing sharply as I wince at the smell of Her libation. I revert a sake-cup of the stuff and nearly gag, and I promise Her more—once we know the full extent of my family member’s remaining health concern.
She pats my head, impossibly tall, Her face in shadow. I can tell She smiles.