You are being called home, the old blind psychic said.
Some day, I replied.
You should go now.
Your life is not here.
Where is home? I asked.
I like it here. I’ve finally learned the language.
Do not separate yourself from your past.
My past sucks.
I am concerned about your future.
Are you a psychic or a social worker?
How did you find me? she asked.
I’ve been through the whole market. I come every Saturday. I see the people lining up.
They are desperate, hungry, sick, poor, dying.
I did not respond. I saw her point. I did not fit into any of these categories.
They will inherit the earth, she said.
Are you Christian?
I have spoken to God, and to his son, yes.
What do they say about me?
You are committing the sin of pride.
By trying to be free.
Who is calling me home?
You are calling yourself home.
If you tell me where home is, I will go.
Glen Cove, New York.
* * *
My mother had a brain tumor, malignant, non-operative. She had a week or two to live. When I knocked on my parent’s door two days later, my father looked at me and started crying. How did you know? he said. I couldn’t reach you.
You did reach me, I said.
About Project 52/2015: I like to take pictures and I like to write fiction. This Blog will combine the two in what I am calling Project 52/2015, one of my images mated with a piece of very short fiction each week in 2015. Enjoy.