featured in Natasha,
a publication for new non-fiction
In one of the more bizarre vignettes, my body ascended on a cloud up to the heavens. As I drifted towards space, a swath of unfamiliar faces travelled alongside me. My cloud abruptly stopped as a shimmering, robed body floated down towards my vessel. The person moved through the sky with awkward finesse, as if they were being jauntily lowered by strings from an unseen higher power.
As they approached, it became clear that the angelic being was actually our 42nd President, George W. Bush. I immediately became flushed.
“I have to ask, George, is it really you?”
He responded with a few mumbles, which added up to incoherent statements.
“Did my family send you?”
“What have you been painting lately?”
More indecipherable mumbles.
“Do you have any advice for me as I move forward?”
He paused and then held tightly onto my gaze. “If you read the biography of William McKinley,” he directed, “you will have all the answers.”