Before he became famous, The Magician worked the streets, worked string and wind, worked the crowds. He waved his hands over his illusions while smiling at the youngest. Ta-da!

*

You disappear. You magic away the sack you kept packed under your bed, spilling pills on the rug in your haste. Father grunts, “Good riddance.” Dog and Mother wait by the door.

*

In time, the Magician ups his game, ascends from street to stage, from walnut shells to cards, from sticks to wands. He flutters silk instead of rags, pulls chinchillas from his top hat. Poof!

*

You use up the shelters’ good will, flee to the streets. Years pass and someone calls; perhaps it was you passed out on the sidewalk, your feet dangling over the curb, cars swerving dangerously to avoid hitting you.

*

The Magician, now renowned, parts veils, slips and dips into other realms. He makes a compact with his conjurer colleagues: “Whosoever dies first must cross the cosmos to communicate with the others.”

*

This time, it’s the authorities. Despite Father’s foot-stamping, they bring you home.

*

The Magician will die second, before having heard from the first.

*

You tether your spirit to your bed, don’t eat or speak for a week. While we turn our heads the other way, the shred of your body and the scraps of your soul make their final escape. Your last trick.

*

Dying, The Magician will utter his famous last words, “I’m so disappointed.”

*

You sail up into The Great Unknown. Its red curtains part. You shake and gather your bones, take a deep bow.