“Get her some flowers for Mother’s Day. Purple iris.” Wendy called out a final instruction from her front porch. She was a psychic. She read Tarot cards, threw the I Ching and channeled the voices of mystical guides. She was referring to my stepmom, Mother Kim, who had died a dozen years earlier. Mother Kim had spoken through Wendy once before, offering me advice about attending a writers’ conference. Wendy had looked confused. “She says…get your hair done. Does that make sense to you?”
Oh, yeah.
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