J. Rusolo Ward

“America, that trellis your father constructed out of reclaimed wood killed all of my roses.”  My mother stood at the window, shaking her head in frustration.

“I told you it was a bad idea to get garden supplies out of that nasty old abandoned junkyard.”

“You told us not to go there because it’s haunted, not because it has contaminated wood.”

“How do you think the wood got contaminated?  Residue from all the ghosts.”

Mother signed.  “Aren’t you getting too old for this?”

“I didn’t realize there was an age limit on one’s beliefs,” I said, pushing my shoulders back and holding my head up high.

My mother stared at me for a moment, then burst out laughing.  “So serious!  You had me for a minute!”

“I’m not joking, mom.”  I crossed my arms.  “Grandma said you wouldn’t understand.”

“When did you speak with Grandma Carla?”

“Grandma Mary.”

“My mother died before you were born.”

“I know, but that doesn’t stop her from visiting.  She says I’m special, like she was, because I can communicate with the dead.”

“If you’re so special, what are tonight’s winning lottery numbers?”

“I can’t see the future,” I protested.

“No.  You just see things that no one else can.”

“You never believe me.”  I pouted.

“Why should I?  You talk about haunted junkyards and speaking with dead people.”

“But that junkyard….”

My mother cut me off.  “Enough!  Your father and I get things from that junkyard all the time.  Nothing has ever been possessed or haunted.”

Just then, we heard a knocking on glass.  My mother instinctively turned toward the window.  I turned her around toward the mirror.  Instead of our reflections, we saw Grandma Mary smiling and waving.

“Didn’t you get that from the junkyard?”  I asked my mother, right before she fainted.