While wandering around the fried food vendors and hawkers of all things made in Asia at the flea market yesterday, I passed a psychic named Rachel.
I didn’t really want six bras for $12, and I didn’t need a kitchen gadget for real cheap, so I figured $20 on a tarot card reading would be good entertainment that wouldn’t fill my closets needlessly. I doubled back.
I used to believe tarot was the playhouse of the devil — I didn’t read horoscopes either — so if that’s how you think, don’t read any further because you’ll feel compelled to pray for my immortal soul.
During the reading, the grim reaper card made an appearance.
Rachel, a tiny Hispanic woman with soft hands and laugh lines around her eyes, said, “Don’t worry. It doesn’t mean death.”
She reassured me it might mean I think often of my brother, who died 13 years ago.
I think it’s more symbolic.
Online, descriptions of the meaning of the death card include phrases such as “speaks of a major conclusion in an area of our lives” and “acknowledged as a life changing symbol.”
I’ve been feeling I’ve been standing on a precipice, but I don’t feel like I’m about to fall off. I feel like I’m ready to fly.
Growing wings would certainly be “life changing.”
In other news, Rachel told me I’m married to a good man, my stepchildren love me and there’s a move in store for me (oh, and my second and third books will be even more successful than my first!).
For $20, my reading was certainly more useful than some of the dusty plastic junk I passed up at the flea market. And I didn’t have to lug it home.