Laughing Down the Moon Read Free Page A

gleaming wood and charm surrounded us. I felt at ease here. I listened to the stone fireplace crackle and sizzle as the logs yielded to the flames and heat. I thought about Patrick’s question.
    “Yes and no,” I answered. “Honestly, I liked the laugh yoga—I was so into it that I didn’t even realize it wasn’t laugh yoga!” I laughed. “But now, looking back, I feel stupid.”
    “Oh, Allura,” Patrick said. He pushed up the sleeves of his gray fleece pullover and patted my arm. I noticed his ears stretch backward under his coppery red hair as he tried not to laugh. “Maybe later we can try it again in the right class,” he pressed his lips together, “but for now, I’d just avoid that YMCA.”
    “Definitely,” I said.
    “It was cool though,” he continued, “I thought there’d be actual yoga, the kind you need a mat for, but there wasn’t. It was more of an internal yoga thing.”
    “Mm-hmm…”
    He patted my arm again and said, “You’ll like it.”
    Trisha, dressed head to toe in stylish, soft, pale blue denim, entered and set down a tray containing a decanter of red wine, five glasses, a hunk of creamy white cheese and two or three dozen crackers on a plate, two little knives and a king-sized Almond Joy bar. Ah, these were my people. Knowing that the Almond Joy bar was for me, I gave Trisha a look of gratitude. She smiled, the corners of her blue eyes crinkling up like half-closed paper fans. I love Trisha’s face. She has the quintessential pale blond look that just screams Scandinavia. She was glacial ice—in appearance only—whereas Patrick was a glowing ember with his red hair, freckles and strawberry blond eyebrows.
    “As soon as Veronica arrives, we’ll start the Silent Supper,” Trisha said. Veronica was a floor manager at a dialysis clinic and was often required to work long hours.
    Most Pagans held their Samhain celebrations to honor the dead on October thirty-first, but since Patrick was a devout Catholic, he and I had started a set of traditions decades ago that allowed us both to feel like we were doing the right thing. We used the traditional silent Samhain supper to honor the dead on the November first Catholic holiday of All Saints’ Day. It worked well for Patrick and me; for Veronica, however, it worked a little less well, but she partook each year in our celebrations. Veronica is what I call a hard-core Pagan, whereas I am what I like to refer to as a soft-core Pagan. Call me wishy-washy, but I just think that there is more than one path to the well-being of the soul.
    Over the years, Patrick, Veronica and I had culled a hybrid spirituality. We celebrated Solschristice, which was Yule alongside Christmas; Eastara, which was Ostara combined with Easter; and All Samhain, which was Samhain on All Saints’ Day. Recently we’d created Spring Equipassion, which was the Equinox woven into Passion week. Patrick and I had decided in high school that all of these rituals and celebrations had likely originated from the same early practices anyway. As we started to get to know Veronica at university, she began to water down her Pagan ways with our hybrid ones. Trisha, not being given to one religion or path of spirituality, was always a graceful participant in our celebrations. Of course, she had only entered the picture a few years ago and probably knew she’d never change our eclectic ways.
    Veronica gusted into the house without knocking. Above her tightly laced Victorian boots, her inky black swing coat swirled. Her dark hair had a row of sister knots, or “sistah knots” when she said it, that framed her face while the rest of her hair sprang delightfully out in all directions. She was just into her forties, but with her chubby cheeks, she looked much younger. The flames roared more brightly in the fireplace from the torrent of fresh air, so Veronica’s entrance was accompanied by the satisfying scent of burning pinewood. Veronica had gift bags, a backpack and a heavy