On the February night when my Grandma was dying I heard a message. It was simple and direct.


“Throw the bones.”

I was spending time near her bed every day, holding vigil with other women from the family. I watched as friends and family, both living and passed, came to visit her. My Grandpa’s spirit waited in the corner for her to let go, occasionally moving to her side and holding her hand. My Great Grandma, who I’m not sure I ever met, stood by the pantry door. The air was stagnant, but flowing at the same time.

“Throw the bones.”

The bones started coming to me. Teeth and parts I had been gifted when I was younger, trinkets from my Grandpa’s workshop, pieces I had collected over the decades that held importance, and then animals started gifting their bones to me. The bones have a life of their own. They speak and open the avenue for spirits to come through.
They didn’t start talking immediately. I took care of them for months. They sat and listened, we would connect. They were there, waiting.
Then there was the day it came again.

“Throw the bones.”

I shook them, breathed them life, and cast them. They have a story for you. They said it was time.