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"A woman is standing behind you," Adrianna says. "Wait, what?" as I reach down to get my notebook. Adrianna is next to me and across the table from us is an oracle. There is no one else in the room. Except for the oracles weathered beagle, who is snoring louder than a jack-saw. We sit in a small room. The textured walls are the kind of gold that looks like a ring that hasn't been cleaned in a while. A painting of Jesus hangs above the oracle's head. A statue of a wizard sits to her left. A ring with the star of David wraps around her right ring finger. She seems to be a collector of all spiritual emblems, no matter the origin. "She is an immigrant. She is short, dark hair, and won't stop talking." Oh.... That sounds like my great-grandma Danko, my grandmother's mother. She came to the States in the early 20s and raised my grandmother and six siblings in Cleveland. "This is a funny lady." But, Grandma Danko had died years ago. Before my parents were even married. But her humor lives on in my mom, sisters, and I. I am a bead on a necklace of wild and weird women. But what I was doing was truly weirding me out. I was visiting my friend, Adrianna, in Mexico City. I had just quit my job and was dedicating myself to my art. It was liberating, exciting, and absolutely horrifying. I was either destined for greatness or bankruptcy. As I explained all of this to Adrianna over pan dulces and coffee, she said, "Oh, we need to go to the oracle then," with the same casualness as suggesting we get manicures. If I hadn't been in a more vulnerable point in my life, I would have headed with more caution. But there is something about casting your life out into the wind that makes you more curious, if not desperate to know if your next precarious moves can be predicted. What do the fates have to say about my choices? However, witches are not uncommon in Mexico. In fact, they are an institution. In certain communities, every family has a witch, a healer, or a sorcerer. They are shared the way my sisters and I share a gynecologist. Brujas, witches, assist with mild physical ailments and emotional toil. They are still frequented before regular doctors. They provide herbal teas to heal your headaches, a love potion to relieve your heart, and a tarot reading to see who will win the football match. Herbolarias, people who sell herbs with magical powers, are in nearly every market in Mexico City, wedged between your produce merchant and meat man. Pick up your love tincture after you get your onions, but before you grab your pork for the night. "She is watching over you, protecting you," said the oracle nonchalantly as her old beagle lets out a snore loud enough to wake the dead. But to my understanding, the reading hadn't started. A vision had come to her. She needed to let me know who else was in the room. I felt suspect. The details this lady gave me were oddly specific. Or was I filling in the pieces? The oracle laid out small leather skins on the table. Twenty or so wooden Nordic ruins, face down. Not necessarily native magic, I presumed. I'm instructed to take six of the ruins with my right hand. My NYC skepticism is tickled. I am a woman of science, but my need for measured order in a chaotic world was superseding. Because I wanted to believe. Maybe it would quell my restlessness. This might be why therapy hasn't caught on here. Why vent about your problems when you can have someone tell you what will happen next? My hands hover over these soft stones, smoothed from polish and the rubbing of many worries. This was silly. My culture didn't make room for witches. I inhale, pick six, and lay them out in front of her. She matches my selection on oval dots in the center of the leather. She flips them over one by one. Then, she lets out a sigh.