I can see the wind
She knew there was mold on the pico de gallo. She knew three cars were waiting to turn left behind her.
Still, she looked over at the psychic’s mailbox, the wooden gypsy who offered herself with open hands, right there across from Beth Judea.
A gulf separated the two, a highway of four lanes that left an eternity of space between rabbi and priestess.
People drove from miles around to visit this phantom of the other plane, this mystery and threat; and here was the soccer mom staring down her mailbox.
The left turn signal blinked predictably while the oneg snack turned even more sour. Rotting tomatoes and onions wafted into her nostrils; horns began to honk.
“I can see the wind.”
Her tattered eyes watched blades of grass ride in waves as the afternoon rainstorm blew in. She gazed past the mailbox, across the lawn, as ripples of grass flowed to the psychic’s front door.
And it was a siren, an ambulance speeding by, that finally broke her trance. The minivan turned left, as it did every week, as the kids threw legos in the back seat.
* 188 words on the 3rd definition of phantom.