We threw him the grapes, and he tried to catch them in his mouth. He missed, or we missed, more often than they landed in his mouth, and soon the floor of the cabin was littered with green grapes. We collapsed into laughter, clutching our sides.

“You cheered me up and no mistake,” he said when we’d run out of grapes. We reached through the window, each of us holding out a hand. He reached out with his one hand and clasped both of ours in it. I remember his skin was so warm. Too warm.

“We’ll come visit you every day until you’re well,” we promised.

But he was gone the next day.

Considering the rudimentary medicine, there weren’t actually that many deaths in Mana’s Hearth. His was such a shock for Taema and me. We couldn’t cope. He was there, and then he wasn’t. We’d never see him again. We lay in bed, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, foreheads pressed against each other, just sobbing. It wasn’t fair.

There wasn’t a funeral; we didn’t really have them in Mana’s Hearth. We didn’t gather around a corpse and plant it in the ground, or burn it up. I knew they did something with the body, but not exactly what. People mourned, and people would still talk about Adam and others who died and say they missed them; but there’d be no celebration, or wake, or anything like that.

Seems backward too, doesn’t it? Looking back now, I see that, but the Hearth doesn’t celebrate beginnings or endings. We focused on celebrating the day-to-day life that continued. The passing of seasons had a special meaning for us, but other holidays that lingered on from past religions we had nothing to do with. In the Hearth there were no Christmas trees or Hanukah menorahs.

I tried to convince Taema to get a Christmas tree, the first year we were living in San Francisco, but she didn’t want one.

“We’re never going to believe in it,” she said.

“Does anyone? It’s a tree in the living room with pretty lights, and there aren’t many Pagans around anymore. Santa Claus and a tree have nothing to do with Jesus. And not a lot of people seem to believe in him here, either.”

“Shouldn’t we celebrate winter?”

“Why? We don’t believe in Mana-ma or her God anymore, either.”

She had no answer to that.

Back then, it was almost time to celebrate summer. Taema and I dragged our feet as we made our way to the church, wearing our best dress. It wrapped around our conjoined torso, but we’d taken the time to have it fit around each of our waists. Taema had green ribbon and I had blue. The skirt swished around our legs, edged with hand-stitched lace.