I was watching the movie alone because my parents were asleep. They both worked night shift at the tire factory, so I was often alone, especially from the time I came home from school to when one of them woke up to feed me dinner.
After the movie, I gathered ingredients for my own problem-solving potions: vinegar from the pantry, witch hazel from the medicine cabinet, clay dirt from the dried mud beside the street drain, and tadpoles caught from the creek behind our house. I grabbed glass bowls from the kitchen and a knife and a wooden spoon. I pulled on my favorite long dress, which made me feel something I can later ascribe as sexy.
By the upturned remains of a trunk in our yard, I concocted potions for friends, for adventure, for grace. I murmured prayers akin to my catholic upbringing, seeing no difference between the church's mysticism and the dark magic I was forging under the dead tree.
Eventually, I lost interest in my potion-making and cleaned my mom's dishes. My small sojourn as a witch, though, became an often-revisited childhood memory for me, especially when I yearned for a comforting solution to an anxiety. I would think back to those spells and potions, wishing I could be a witch sister.
As an adult, I re-watched that movie. Turns out, it was a comedy.