Flash Fiction: The Psychedelic Church

My Spiritual Granny

Granny's religion is something I never entirely understood. She prayed for everything, but especially for the savior to come. "Oh, I'll know him when I see him," she said.

She was kind, but her head was always in the clouds, never coming down to earth for long. And I accepted her as she accepted me. She never told me to go to church but always hummed the songs they played at Sunday's service and raved about how pretty the young female churchgoers were.

My Favorite Beatle

I was very unlike my Granny. I smoked pot, collected classic rock albums, and had a separate room to indulge. It was called the psychedelic church. Of course, I never showed Granny or my mother the psychedelic church because they wouldn't understand. But one day, my Granny was curious.

"Why don't you ever take me in that room?" she asked.

"Well, that's where I relax and meditate. It's my sanctuary. Just like your church is your sanctuary--my psychedelic church is mine."

"I always knew you were religious?" Granny said. "I can see it in your blue eyes. You have the eyes of a savior."

I smiled when Granny compared me to a savior--but I was far from one. I used to think she was kidding, but she said it too many times for me not to believe it.

Finally, I said, "Would you like to come inside?"

She smiled and nodded.

I opened the door, and the smell of incense almost knocked over my frail Granny.

"Wow," that's some heavenly aroma," she said.

I was going to offer her a joint, but I thought better of it.

She looked around my psychedelic sanctuary, including my fancy-colored bean bag chair, the strobe light, the lava lamps, and the band posters on the walls that glowed in the dark.

"Oh my lord!" she shouted and let out a gasp. "You have a picture of The Savior on the wall!"

I laughed but didn't tell her it was my favorite Beatle, George Harrison.

"I didn't know you were so religious."

"Spiritual, Granny. It's the hippy way."

Granny Loved My Psychedelic Church

"Can I sit near the savior's picture on one of your seats?" she asked.

"Of course. Let me help you down on the beanbag."

"Oh, this is marvelous. I've never sat on anything like it."

"Do you want me to turn out the lights, so you get the full effect of the savior's poster?"

"That would be marvelous."

I turned out the light, and the picture of Harrison glowed in the dark, in all of its three-dimensional glory.

Granny's prayed to her new savior with the focus of a disciple. She looked at Harrison, and I could see her eyes full of angels. Granny didn't care if George was a former Beatle who played the lead guitar for perhaps the most incredible rock group. She felt the spirit of something, and I didn't want to disturb her. So I sat down in a lotus position and meditated.

I was never closer to Granny than that day.

And after that, she became a regular in my psychedelic church. We must have smoked ten pounds of marijuana in the years preceding her death. And when we buried Granny, I placed a picture of George Harrison in her casket and a big, fat joint so she could get high in heaven.