But seeing those images of Annie’s altar to the dead and beloved (like I have done for my paternal grandmother), and seeing Annie’s Florida water on a shelf against the wall of her little hut (while I have my own slowly depleting bottle on my shelf against the wall of my little apartment), and seeing Annie refresh a mojo bag for her lover (when I have my own sacred objects and little prayers to keep my loved ones safe) stirred up something ancestral in me.