I just felt like writing.

[wortcunner]

Dockery ate the nasty roots and perished. It was very much like she said on that cold, grey autumn afternoon when the sun seemed so distant in the sky. She had been drinking from her metal flask and as she said it, she stopped and tipped herself a drink. For a moment I was dazzled by the vacant light's concentration. Her words, it seemed at times, held no truth to them. They were a legerdemain performed in the spirit of novelty or entertainment. Only this time when she spoke her ill omens they were ripe with truth. Later, I would marvel at how similar her fancies and falsities were to the iron of truth that she could disgorge. Far later, when that single touchstone moment of Dockery's death had long fled my ancient memory, I would come to believe I understood the one grave difference. Dockery had climbed down from her ancient porch not an hour later as she stood in her kitchen window. She did not see him, for age had stolen all but the most persistent of visions from her. I had left by then. I was a child and my duty to my elders was completed, and so I had escaped as quickly as was diplomatic. And there, under the porch our absence bore no witness to that which we found some days later.

What did that mean, then, about the other thing she had said?