The other day, I spoke to a psychic. Card-carrying, bona fide. I know, right? Psychic phenomenon is my territory—or at least Aubrey Ellis’s, who I have the fun of channeling. This psychic is an author-friend first, someone I have known through the world of books, but long before I penned ethereal words. She has periodically turned up, never at my request, and always when I am at a crossroads.
Her missives are amazing.
They range from house history that proved to be fact, and more poignant messages from my father. He is gone two years today. Today is also my birthday—so, yes. You do the math; the odds are unlikely. Maybe I should have bought a Mega Millions ticket, though I suspect you think I don’t have that kind of good fortune.
Happy Birthday from Heaven?
Interestingly, the recent message I received was about good fortune. It was from my father and how he hopes that, someday, I will think of October 25th as a day that he and I share in the most extraordinary way.
Not yet. Not this year, but maybe one day. It is a hopeful, healing thought.
How psychics interpret:
This is how the call from my friend, whose gift rivals Aubrey’s, began. She said she’d been distracted by a vision—a man on a cement pier with a fishing rod, positive that this place was his respite. She asked right away, “Did your father fish? I mean, just fish?” There was a pause. “Because someday, when you think the time is right, that’s what he’d like, for you to go fishing on your birthday and think of him.”
Is that true?
Well. I can’t say I’m much for fishing. But I can tell you this—my father never watched a second of football. For a kid from Queens, he didn’t give a flying flip about the Yankees or the Mets or a subway series. He didn’t play cards, tinker with cars, bowl, or go to the movies. He fished. On a cement pier. That was his respite.
The gift of good fortune via otherworldly encounters, on and off the page.