Here a Psychic, There a Psychic, Everywhere, a Psychic, Psychic

Phoenix has been overrun. And I’m not referring to ants. Though, if you leave food on your counters—ants will surely show up. I’m referring to psychics. In Phoenix,  there seems to be one on every corner. Find a Starbucks—find a psychic. Tarot cards, horoscopes, palm and aura readings. The gifted must love the warm weather.

Calling the dead. Calling the dead. Come in, the dead.

On television, there’s been an explosion of psychic talent. Theresa Caputo from Long Island says she can connect to the other side. Heck, I grew up in Queens which is technically on Long Island. No one seemed psychic back then. Crazy, yes. But psychic? No. And then there’s baby-faced Tyler Henry. He provides readings to television’s reality stars. He promises that he has no idea who these Hollywood celebrities are. Frankly, neither do I. I guess I should buy a copy of People every now and then.

A True Believer Wrapped in a Cynic’s Soul

But don’t be fooled.  I want to believe. In fact, I’m hoping to be convinced. I want to know that my loved ones are looking out for me. I want to trust that we can speak to our dearly departed. That somehow, through the process of crossing-over, they’ve become more loving, enlightened, and accepting. Gosh. That would be a dream come true. Did I say dream?

And Now for the Skeptic

So, why would I need a third-party to contact my loved ones? God knows they were never shy when they were alive. I’m sure if I just stop and listen, I can hear their voices in my head. My mother would want me to know that she loves me and is proud. My father would apologize for behaving like such an ass after marrying that wealthy widow. I can hear them now. Now, when all of that would have no impact on my life. Or would it? Hmm. Anyone know a good psychic?