In ten days the moment that changed her life forever and placed her on the path of enlightenment would return. And although, the nightmares have stopped, the longing for Pamela Holland to return to the physical realm hadn’t.Intent on keeping her promise to return to Harrisburg Pennsylvania on the anniversary of Pam’s death; most of the morning had been spent searching for the best way to make the two thousand mile journey. Flying was out. Crowed airports and misconnects would be a hassle, and taking the bus would be too cumbersome.She turned toward Pam’s picture on the computer desk, ran her fingers over the frame—gingerly. She stared her ghostly image behind Pam’s smiling face, but saw only traces of the smiles that use to lighten her dark plum eyes. This is more than a trip to pay homage to someone she loved. This is a pilgrimage back to the beginning, back to the place where the price for humanity without conditions was paid by the spilling of innocent blood, and to her, Pam’s resting place is as secrete as Golgotha to the Christians and the Kaʿbah to the Muslims.
The entire city of Seattle bustled with a spring like vibrance outside her second floor condominium. Sunlight fell from a clear blue sky as tangible as rain, reflecting the last of summer off every reflectable surface and imparting a perfect autumn day. Colorful flashes from passing cars marred her vision and reminded her of the celebration fireworks that lit the night skies during holidays. But this wasn’t the season of jubilation; this was the season of shadows and nothing could ever compensate for the senseless loss of a perfect creation as Pam. The light felt as cold as a Spector’s cloak and the dark clouds hovering over Olympia Mountains was a vivid reminder of the approaching rainy season and the dark autumn whisper.
Leaning back in the chair, Ingrid combed through her stylish raven hair with her hands. She released a pent up breath, the feeling time had grind to a halt, leaving her stranded on a barren veldt, littered with nightmares and horrid memories without any real answers. A wave of anger suddenly stabbed her as the morning Pam died in her arms returned to mind.
For a year now she’s wished Pam’s death could have been a near death, and not an actual death, where you stayed dead. But Pam—like most minorities—wasn’t one of those xenophobic people that said” nigger,” with conviction around their own, then ask forgiveness with a shitty smirk plastered on a plastic phiz. And she wasn’t one of those Jesus people who taunted the death angel by drinking strychnine, babbling bullshit, and French kissing a poisonous snake, all the while dancing to an aria from Hell’s Grand Opera.
And Pam wasn’t a heavens reject—either, the ones that die just long enough to hear dead Grandma say, “it’s not your time yet dearie” than are instantly thrown back among the living with that God looks like me, fucked up grin. So considering all the things Pamela Holland wasn’t in this life, poor Pam never had a chance of being a near dead, but an actual dead where you stayed dead.
Ingrid recalled the vision at the cemetery on the day Pam was interred and perhaps it proved something more profound about life and death. Her death could never be jus divinum, the vision proved that if there is such a being as God, he saw Pam’s beautiful essence and didn’t reject her based on continental linage by the fodder the good whites Christians always insinuated about people of color in their twisted doctrine.
Frustrated, Ingrid snapped a breath and let her thoughts flout back to a conversation a few months before Pam’s death. They were strolling on the pier when Pam suddenly turned to her and said. Imagine time as a fluid constantly flowing forward. If you could bend the continuum backwards to a fixed point in the past and change a season, which season would you change?