Mikki Aronoff’s work appears in New World Writing, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Tiny Molecules, The Disappointed Housewife, Bending Genres, Milk Candy Review, Gone Lawn, Mslexia, The Dribble Drabble Review, 100 word story, The Citron Review, Atlas and Alice, trampset, jmww, and elsewhere. She’s received Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction nominations.

Lifting Spirits

It’s been sixteen years since I lost Ma, and I’m starting to forget what she looked like. Tomorrow’s her birthday, and I feel a big space inside me where shopping for a present for her used to be. If she were here, she’d feather my hair with her fingertips and coo “Your spirits need fluffing.” I’ve been craving contact with her lately, so when I found myself walking past All Portals Metaphysical Bookstore this morning, I did a double take on the lone flyer taped to its window.

Madame Swami Romanza Bonanza

Reunite with Your Loved Ones on The Other Side

Place Your Palm on My Picture

Reasonable Rates

Her picture’s out of focus, but the twitch of her smile feels nicely familiar. I swivel to see if anyone’s looking and lay my hand on the portrait. My palm starts tingling, and my heart warms. When I open my eyes again, I’m barefoot and stretched out on my living room sofa feeling rattled. Then a sing-song C-o-m-i-n-g!, three registers up from normal, fills my ears. Immediately, a buzzy, loud noise like a swarm of drones breaking the sound barrier shakes and shatters my thoughts and splinters the edge of the door. Aren’t seers supposed to be subtle? I tiptoe to the door, open it a crack, and peer down at a blur of a woman about Ma’s size wearing purple velvet and a piano shawl scarf pulled forward, shading all but her smile. My toes are wiggling with happiness from this woman who makes me think of Ma. I’ll be deliriously happy when she delivers her to me in one form or another.

Madame pushes past me to the kitchen, and a whiff of cinnamon and allspice wafts up my nose. She’s carrying a frayed duffel bag. Is she planning to move in? I felt your need. Sorry I’m late.

My door will need sanding. But she is my passport to the portal, so I force a smile as she sculpts herself into the chair Ma used to sit in. I pour her a cup of Folgers, pass her a plate of Oreos.

She sips and sighs, sips and sighs, then rises from the table. She air-sketches a vertical wavy line, and a crowd of silver rings like the ones Ma used to wear flashes light in my eyes. The veil is so thin these days. She plunks back down on the chair. Lucky you got me at such a busy time. Was that a hint for a tip?

I tell her I’ve written letters and burned them in the back yard barbecue, hoping Ma could read ashes and smoke. I tell her I’ve pleaded with Ma to let me know she’s not just freefalling in dark space but settled somewhere warm playing blackjack with Aunt May and Pops. I tell her nothing’s happened, not even magazine pages flipping over in a windless room like you see in the movies.

She’s nodding like a dashboard bobble-head bulldog. She’s gobbled up all the cookies and is holding her cup up for a refill. I wonder if she sees how modestly I live in my tiny house with the aluminum siding that’s sliding off, wonder if I’m being played.

“So, can you let me see my mom?” I shove a creased black & white under her nose. Maybe Madame needs a visual. She leans over the picture of Ma leaning on a rake in the garden, me in my sandpile, and I watch as a tear drops. Then two tears, then three. Soon there’s a puddle in the middle of the photo. She sniffles and snorts. She touches my cheeks, then reaches down, opens her duffel bag, and pulls out an old red and white checkered napkin that matches my kitchen tablecloth. She blubbers some more, wipes her nose, then the picture. Her body shimmers with sadness.

Now she’s on her feet and hugging me so tightly that I’m afraid I’ll pee on the spot. I must’ve had five cups of coffee by now. I make my excuses and race to the bathroom. I don’t want to leave her—she feels like Ma. When I return—poof! She’s gone. The window over the kitchen counter’s wide open and a breeze is cooling the room. On the table, a peach pie, my favorite, minus a sliver, and a folded-over note next to it. I open it carefully. The ink is fading as I read it:

Sorry. Had to go. I miss you, too.