New Friend

I was making a new friend, blonde-gray, a living opal, pellucid, also reminding me of a green apple napping underneath its tree, where I have tumbled too, being of an age, “elderly” but undepressed, she tall enough to change the smoke alarm — sharing a ripeness that we liked comparing, bosses who couldn’t see us, perforation by divorce, retirement, and stairs. One lunch that I was looking forward to, the first thing on her mind — “Do you believe in the Occult?” — “Merline! No, I don’t think so.” She was in an auditorium — her older, deader sister sat right down beside her with a message — a large figure not her body but a sum — what did it mean? I’d thought one of us leaned forward at the lectern but a ghost was there, holding sway, or forth. Well, it came true — she’s richer by that sum — and urges making sure to be attentive to my dreams. She knows that it will happen — I’m her friend, as the Occult has been so far. I didn’t want my brother appearing in a dream to bring me news of unexpected income — if only I would pray about it first — to the God who had my brother die after all. And certainly not my sister prophesying ill on my behalf. I guess I’d stand up, put on a mike, look out at all the empty faces, make them look alive, and even cheer. Had I remembered a firsthand poltergeist, a temptatious legend ... I guess I’d accept a sleek Angora bunny in a mohair hat, or magic like a two-dollar bill, ask for a life my brother could have back.