The ghosts in Love and Other Incurable Ailments

Serenity’s twelve-year-old neighbor, Raf, in Love and Other Incurable Ailments, is precocious, dramatic, and a bit infatuated with her. He’s also fond of ghost stories and convinced that the run-down cottage she’s living in is haunted.

He offers her a solution:

“I know how to exorcise the house if you want. All you need are sage sticks and a smudge bowl.”   

“A smudge bowl? That sounds messy.”

“Nah. You light the sticks and let the smoke fill the room. You don’t make, like, actual smudges. The smoke drives the spirits out and protects you from them coming back in.” He circled his hand above him. “I bet you could find sage at Thrive Herbals.”

“Thrive Herbals? I’ll look for it.”

“It’s on Cemetery Road. Also, if someone dies in your house, you should open a window right away to let their spirit escape.”

“Well. You never know when that bit of information might come in handy.”

Obviously, Serenity dismisses the idea at first. But later, alone in the cottage at night, anxious and overtired, she begins to wonder whether maybe—just maybe—Raf is onto something.

The comfort of rituals

The objects and habits we create meaning around always fascinated me, and smudge sticks became one of those details that felt both symbolic and beautifully comforting in the story.

After all, Serenity uses candles to communicate with her mother, even though she might not admit it.

And sage burning and smoke cleansing rituals have existed across many cultures and spiritual traditions for centuries from indigenous cultures to Catholic priests.

While shopping at Legends of Time in my hometown, I came across actual sage bundles and smudge sticks—the kind Raf would absolutely insist Serenity immediately buy.

This plaque from the store display describes the ceremony:

I understand the appeal.

There’s something comforting about rituals, even when you’re not entirely sure what you believe.

Sometimes the act itself—lighting something fragrant, opening a window, letting smoke drift through a quiet room—is less about ghosts and more about creating the feeling that a space, or maybe even a person, can begin again.

I think that’s part of why rituals endure. They help us feel grounded and safe, or they make a house feel more like home. We all have our own version of smudging: A candle we light. A lucky object. A routine before bed. And grief also has rituals.

What rituals or little comforts do you return to? Please share!