Author Information
Sticky Sweet
Folder:
Passages
It was a sticky mantra. Same as that pop song from her adolescence, the one about Chuck E.'s In Love. She hadn't heard it in years but could sing it from beginning to end, inflections and all. Also true of the Our Father prayer. Though she'd not set foot in a church since her mother forced Catholic submission on her all throughout childhood, she could recite it by rote. No, this was different. It came to her in a dream, delivered by a beautiful goddess riding on the back of a Garuda bird, uttered melodic and sweet, a stream of Sanskrit syllables, soothing her soul and mollifying her moodiness. It required no practice nor memorization but coated her, like a glaze of honey on a hot day.
