It's the middle of October and I stand in the paranoia filled serenity that only a graveyard could have. The full moon sits there in midnight black and star twinkled night sky like some over protective mother. I feel its presence at the back of my mind as a cool metaphysical wind to comfort me for what I am about to do. I turn to my parents who are a few feet behind me.

My strong and reassuring dad stands there with the same look he always has before a raising. He looks at me with that look that says "I'm here for you son. I can't imagine what you're going through but I'm here for you.". I love him for that look but resent him at the same time for it. No, he has no idea what I go through. No one does. For that, I hold a small resentment for everyone. Well, except for my mom. I could never resent her.

My dad's strong dark arms hold the small figure of my mom. Her hair is drawn back into a single braid which makes her look younger than she actually is. It also emphasizes her fine cut facial features. Her lips quiver with the built up worry on my behalf. Her hazel eyes are glazed with unshed tears. Unlike my dad, her eyes give me a different message. The message is that she's worried about me and that if I come out of this wounded, she would heal me. When you're young, and if you're fortunate enough to have both parents, your mom doesn't fight your battles. Your dad does. Your mom is there with the band-aids and neosporin. Thats what she promised with her eyes.

I take a long sigh and turn around. I look at the gravesite that i stand in front of. The headstone is amazing. Above the gray stone block that features the information of the deceased, stands a figure of a female angel. Her wings are arched in a pre-flight position, so it looks like any minute now, the angel would soar off into heaven. As i gaze at the angel, I recite the words that I know by heart. The same words are etched into the gray marble block, below the angel. "Here lies Josephine A. Moore," I begin. "Born in the year of 1910 and laid to rest in the year of 2001. 'A mother, a friend, an angel on Earth'". An angel is what she truly was.

I look down at my feet and see the dagger I would be using. The hilt is white and the blade is made of silver. I lean down and grasp the hilt with my right hand. My hands shake with the anxiety that I always get before a raising. I inhale a deep breath, count to ten, and let it out slowly. I put the cool blade against the palm of my right hand, readying myself for the cut. I point the tip of the blade against the end of my left middle finger. I let out a wince of pain as I draw the blade from the top of my middle finger to the top of my wrist. The pain intensifies into a line of searing heat in my hand. I let the blood from the cut slowly drip over the gravesite.

Crimson drop by crimson drop pounds the soft and moist ground. As my blood is soaked by the ground, I can feel the pressure of raw magic surround me. I can only hear and see the gravesite. Everything else is forgotten. I lay my left hand on the grave and begin saying the words that I've said 10 times before, "With blood, I call you from the grave Josephine Moore. I call you from the grave.". The magic that was once threatening to burst out of my body released and poured into the grave through my hand. I stand back up and look at the grave. The dirt suddenly becomes more liquid than solid. With an unworldly roaring sound, the earth that once confined a body 6 feet under, now lets that same body travel back to the surface.

It's clear that it's no longer fair to refer to this woman as body. Aside from the setting in which this all takes place, you would never think that she was dead. Her brown, frail, and wrinkled skin are evidence to her old age, as is the graying in her hair. Her baby blue dress is stained with the dirt of several years. Suddenly, her eyes open, revealing a look similar to that of a person awakening from a comfortable nap. Then her eyes flash with recognition as she sees me. "There's my baby. I missed you Camron.", she says with the soft and caring voice i remember.

I try to hold back the tears that suddenly well in my eyes and fail. Two streams of tears roll from my eyes, down my cheeks, and falling from my chin to the ground. No matter how many times I do this, I will never get used to it. "H-hi grandma," I managed to choke out. "I missed you too."