The Matriarch, Granny Wilkerson, only stirred the iron cauldron once a year, but the spell she cast with those unknown spices was legendary magic. Her intangible whispered chants, wrapped in the golden warmth of a comforting aroma, wafted far afield, and found each of the sisters where ever they happened to be. Whatever their differences, the Matriarch was cheerfully obeyed. None of the Wilkerson daughters had the magic or the will to resist the Matriarch, anyway.
All thirteen sisters felt the pull within their core, the urgent need to find their way home. One by one, the spell found them, drew them in. Cadence Wilkerson was in Paris, passing the time at a street cafe, when the rosemary essence of her home seemed to surround her in loving arms. Rhyme Wilkerson paused in mid-lecture to inhale deeply before dismissing her class for the remainder of the day. Treble Wilkerson awoke from a coma with the taste of home on her tongue. Mezzo Wilkerson was waiting to summit Mount Everest.
Old animosities faded, old hurts healed, not so new slights were forgotten. Only Adagio Wilkerson noted the passing of those negative emotions within her, and smiled as she felt the familiar anger melt away. As often as they argued, as much as they fought, the sisters were bound by blood. Family was everything. None of them ever felt as safe, as protected, as when all of them were gathered in Granny's kitchen, surrounding the cauldron as it boiled, the steam pinking their faces. No toil and trouble, no sturm und drang. There was only laughter, love, and the fierce magic that only family can conjure.
Granny was waiting for them, they knew. It was time to go home.
The prompt is the third definition of MELT.