WHERE SAGE MEETS WEST

WHERE SAGE MEETS WEST

By Samantha Rose Garcia

Before the city awoke, before the sun broke through the haze, it was quiet. I walked into my grandmother’s kitchen. The soft scent of burning sage wrapped the room as I stood at the entryway. She looked at me and motioned for me to sit. She placed a steaming mug of tea in front of me, her eyes gentle and knowing as I remember them. 

I held the mug up to my face, letting the steam kiss my nose and lips before taking a sip. Bitter. I coughed. She smiled softly, the kind of smile reserved just for me. No words, but I understood her perfectly: keep drinking. She sat across from me as I took another sip, then another. With each one, the bitterness softened, and the warmth spread through me. We sat in perfect silence. 

When her cup was empty, she set it in the sink and walked into the sala. I followed, glancing at her walls adorned with paintings and family portraits. My eyes landed on a small table by the couch. There sat an orange bottle with a child safety cap and a white label reading LAMOTRIGINE 25MG TABLETS. Take one tablet by mouth at bedtime. I stopped, staring at it, feeling the familiar tug in my chest. Two worlds, two medicines. 

She noticed, looked from the bottle to me, and then sat on the couch, gesturing for me to sit at her feet. Her hands, ruby-red nails glinting, holding my small white pill and a glass of water. I looked into her eyes, mine teary-eyed. She exchanged a soft blink and a nod. I swallowed. She began gently caressing my curls, weaving them into trenzas—her version of being in ceremony. I closed my eyes, breathing in the last of the fading scent of burning sage. 

In the quiet of her touch, I thought about her tea—the bitter taste, the way it softened over time, just like life sometimes does. And my pills, the ones that keep me anchored when the world spins too fast. Her remedies and my Western ones are both part of my will to live. As her hands moved through my hair, I realized that both had become vital to my existence. The plants she brewed with love and the pills I take with water before bed aren’t at odds; they’re threads in the same fabric, each holding me together in different ways. 

“The plants she brewed with love and the pills I take with water before bed aren’t at odds; they’re threads in the same fabric, each holding me together in different ways.”

She stood up then, leaving my hair to rest in two trenzas, and began cooking. I watched her from the sala. Slowly, she began to fade. The kitchen blurred. The sun is bright and warm, and I awake to it beaming on my face and staring at my white ceiling in my Oakland apartment. I look to my desk for a cup of water and sitting next to it is the familiar orange bottle with a child safety lock and a white label reading, LAMOTRIGINE 25MG TABLETS. Take 1 tablet by mouth at bedtime.

I spent that morning steaming my tea and burning my sage, preparing my day for the nightly white pill she blessed me to take. Her medicine and mine were braided together, just like my trenzas, keeping me here.

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