I thought about not even telling you this lest you think me too strange.But then I remembered that one time I wrote about vaginas on bicycles, the post about how I once swallowed a Weeble Wobble whole, how I have told you all about how very much I love cleaning out Bryan's ears with a Q-tip too deep, how we play doctor in the bathroom and the way I twist the side of his head under the light just so. Oh--I haven't told you about that yet? Well then.
This past Sunday I went to a psychic. And when I say went to a psychic I mean I paid a woman in Florida to read me over the phone for an hour. Oh, I know how it sounds, paying someone to do something to you in italics. All hoo hoo ha ha Sequoia Na Na con carob when of course we all know now that carob is just as bad for you as chocolate and tastes like shit. But here's the thing: I believed it. Her. Everything. In things that hide and then come out again, in the vastness of strings.The psychic came highly recommended, my left brain having struck a deal with the right. Backed by media claims, testimonials, slips of paper somewhere I am sure. I made an appointment for Sunday morning and waited for her call with a list of questions, a pen, photos. Before me I set a bowl of Native American fetishes that had been my paternal grandmother's. I was nervous.
I thought about not even telling you about this because it was personal. But then I remembered that one times a dozen that I wrote about having panic attacks, the post about how my step-father has been dying for years now, how I have told you that I have absolutely no ass to speak of: just two dimples and a crack. The psychic said I was a writer but why wasn't I writing? No, really, she said--why? Apparently my spirit guides are pushing me forward, she said, and then I nibbled on my granola bar, but still, I listened. Writing. She told me about Zoey. She said that I would give birth to baby #2 when Zoey is 5, that he is very intuitive and waiting. She talked about my dad, and then she said my grandmother was there. I reached for my Native American fetish bowl but she said no, this was my mom's mom. My mom's mom left when my mom was 8. She did not know her. I never knew her. She died in August and we just found out in November. But there she was--she has one hand to her chest and she is saying sorry, she is so sorry, tell your mother there was love there and she is so sorry.
It went on, of course, and while I know that more specifics would improve the post I will just say this: it was true. Whatever that means. Because here my thoughts are made of light, of smoke, and I imagine your eyes are absent. Do you believe? Maybe? The possibility of it like a climbing vine? If you'd like information on the psychic please email me and I'll give you her website.