Four years ago I took my oldest daughter to New Orleans. We visited a voodoo museum and shop where I left what must have been deemed a very generous gift on a shrine of voodoo queen, Marie Laveau. It was just a piece of (unchewed) gum from my pocket, but she must have thought something of it, for the voodoo favor I then sought from the museum curator was swiftly granted with ironic outcome.
The curator told me that if I wasn’t Catholic voodoo couldn’t help me, but suggested I light a candle and say a prayer to the saints instead. Does that not sound eerily Catholic? He carefully selected the candle for my purpose and told me to which saint I should pray. I stood quietly over it for a few moments. Without getting into too much detail, I almost immediately regretted getting what I asked for and still today my husband wastes no time in reminding me of my responsibly for the current ramifications of that action whenever the chance arises, which is with nauseating frequency.
So last week I thought we’d all suffered enough and I returned to the museum, where the same curator sat, charging admission and answering questions.
While I waited, I left some hair ties, a roll of Tums, and a half used cherry Chap Stik from my pocket on Ms. Laveau’s shrine. When it was my turn, I told him in vague detail what happened four years ago.
“That sounds about right,” he validated.
I asked if there was a way to undo the voodoo. Because obviously, with black magic this strong the answer has to be more!
Again, he lit a candle and again I pretended to pray. This time he sprinkled something sparky over the candle. I don’t remember that detail from before, but it was a nice touch.
I’m still waiting to see if it worked. Or unworked. Or whatever.