When Lyla was 52, going on 19, she fell madly in love with Ganesh, who was a good deal younger, and looked a good deal younger than that. She fell in love with him because he dutifully gave her lots & lots of sex & because he was tall, black, inexplicably beautiful, and oddly sad, and because she was astrologically ready to fall in love according to her horoscope and according to the psychic whom she hadn’t yet met but a decade or so later when she was to meet him would tell her that the whole rigmarole had already been set in motion by the stars several centuries earlier. Ganesh was, by the way, a musician. Not famous. Often hungry.
His being a musician, according to the psychic, explained everything.
Due to circumstances as yet unfortold, for the next two decades, Lyla never again left her house, but sat in silent meditation, waiting for Ganesh to manifest, which he did on occasion, despite the fact that he was incapable of impregnating her, no matter how hard he worked at it. All of her relatives, however: her children, her nieces, her semi-children, even her middle-aged sibling set to producing offspring by the dozens. This, she assumed had to do with her own psyche being not quite in tune with the physical reality of its circumstances and so causing chaos in the material world. Ganesh himself, with the help of a certain enthusiastic young devotee, produced a strong, handsome son without any assistance from Lyla whatsoever.
Lyla, in time, contracted cancer of the breast. Which didn’t kill her.
When she was 72, going on 20, Lyla at last fell out of love with Ganesh , but discovered that she loved him nonetheless and in fact (big surprise) that he was now, finally, obsessively in love with her. This had been predicted by the psychic a decade previously and so came as no surprise.
He asked her to marry him. She said yes.
As it turned out, the very next day, while crossing a six lane highway on her way to the bridal boutique, Lyla was struck and killed by an immense pearly pink SUV. The driver, a 29- going-on -73- year-old single mother of rambunctous half-black triplets (all three of whom oddly enough bore a striking resemblance to Ganesh), her ipod turned on max, had been attempting an international call on her iphone, while turned around backwards in her seat changing three nappies at once, and hadn’t been paying quite enough attention to the road. Her name was Agnes.
Ganesh was heartbroken (despite being mildly relieved). In Lyla’s honour he composed a magnificently harmonious & rhythmical elegy which immediately topped all of the charts, both in the U.S. and Europe, not to mention Africa, India, Australia and the Caribbean. He became not only famous, but exquisitely rich, married Agnes, took up residence in Jollywood, Jamaica, and lived happily ever after.
His being a musician, as the psychic had previously pointed out, explained, everything.
*This story appears on Joan Dobbie’s website: http://www.joandobbie.blogspot.com
Categories: art by Joan Dobbie, story by Joan Dobbie
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