Love Over Matter by Maggie Bloom

document from its lair and pop the cabinet closed with my
knee.
    From nowhere, Clive blurts, “Poke a
stick!” or “Smoke a snitch!”
    I curl up on the rug below
his cage, spread the birth certificate across my knees and give it
a fresh once-over. “Good boy,” I say in hopes of quieting my
bird-friend, who’s stuck on the same few syllables: smoke a stick; poke a snitch. Thanks to my dad’s BBC habit, Clive’s voice once had the
sound, however faint, of a born-and-bred Londoner. But the
distinction has faded.
    Here it is, I think, studying the birth certificate. George’s life reduced to a few splotches of ink
and a slice of dead tree: Anatoly Dawson.
No middle name. Born January 21, 1995 at 11:55 p.m. at the Sloane
Hospital for Women in New York City. Son of Ruth Elizabeth Dawson
of 77-21 1/2 66th Drive, Queens, NY. Father unknown.
    I wiggle my foot under my bed and
nudge Haley’s black box within reach. Then I stretch for my
nightstand, which I yank open with a groan (from the furniture, not
me). My hand dips inside the drawer, hooks the crystal pendant I
scored on eBay from a genuine Native American shaman.
    If you’d just talk to
me, I tell George silently, attempting to
muzzle the frustration rising in my thoughts, I wouldn’t have to do all of this.
    Reluctantly, I unpack the
box: skateboard wheel, voodoo doll, igloo photo, quartz-veined
rock, map, cell phone, and obituary. Side by side on the floor, I
line up the birth certificate and the obit. From cradle to grave, I think. Dust to dust.
    I unevenly tower the items, capping
the stack with the infamous cell phone and reserving the crystal
pendant for its starring role. “Nice,” I say once the mound stops
teetering.
    “ BWAAH! BWAAH! BWAAH!”
squeals Clive.
    I struggle to my feet and unlatch his
cage, letting him hippity hop onto my arm. “You’re a fan of my
work, huh?” I say, setting him beside the mountain of memory
rubble. He struts around and issues his bird-peck seal of
approval.
    I realize I’ve forgotten
some crucial elements of my plan, so I slip over to the windows and
draw the shades, then unplug my alarm clock in favor of the white
noise machine that hogs the better part of my narrow dresser. (Note
to self: appliances purchased at yard sales are much bigger than modern versions of
the same exact thing.)
    With a crank of its gouged plastic
dial, I tune the sound-therapy system (technically, white noise is
only one of its settings) to “rainfall” and let it rip, bathing the
room in the soft tink of water on sand. When I plop back down on
the rug, I get a jab in the rear from the one thing that may signal
George’s return: the knotted Funyuns bag, which, for the time
being, lives in my back pocket. “Good one,” I say with a skyward
glance and a chuckle. I wait for a reply, but if there is one, it’s
lost in the rain.
    Here goes nothin’, I think.
    I settle at the edge of the rug,
dangle the pendant by its silk cord and close my eyes. From the
gentle prick of claws on my thigh, I know Clive has joined
me.
    With effort, I still my body and then
my mind. The crystal stops swaying, and I pull a chant from my
belly. “Omm . . . omm . . .
omm . . .” The rain takes over and I open my senses,
erasing the boundary (or so I hope) between the possible and
impossible, betwixt life and death. “Omm . . . omm
. . . omm . . .”
    On the backs of my eyelids, I try to
conjure the road leading from George to me, known in psychic
circles as the Bridge of Souls. Truth be told, this is where my
efforts usually flounder. If I could just convince that rainbow to
appear, I know George would be strolling across it in no time, an
easy smile in his eyes, a golden glow rolling off him in shimmery
waves. “Omm . . . omm . . .
omm . . .” I continue, the yellow streaks in my
vision encouraging me. If only they’d arrange in a layered pattern
and invite their colorful friends along, I’d be in business. “Omm
. . . omm . . .