Moving On

I find myself grappling with an unsettling question: how long have I been dead? It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact duration—was it years, perhaps even decades? Time feels strangely fluid in this liminal space, where moments blend together in a haze of memories and shadows. Each tick of the clock seems to echo in a void, leaving me to wonder about the life I once lived, the dreams I held dear, and the connections I cherished. The uncertainty lingers like a whisper, haunting and elusive, as I try to reconcile the fragments of my past with the stillness of my present.

In life, I was a stay at home mom and a writer. Writing was my secret passion, one I kept closely hidden from those around me. I wrote constantly in leather bound journals I bought at the bookstore. I wrote about a lot of things, heroes and villains, knights in shining armor and princesses in need of rescuing. Though my main job was to be a mother and I was a good one, I cherished my children, I loved them completely. I watched them grow as they watched me grow and, eventually, wither away in this house. And when I died, I watched them mourn in this space, and I watched as my body was taken out of the house on a stretcher. I watched as my daughter cried “why, why, why” and my son, always stoic, standing beside her. I had terminal cancer; there was no cure, only treatments to make me comfortable. The treatments failed to make me comfortable. I was in agony at all times. So I decided to take a bottle of pills and wash it down with wine and I left my countless journals on the bed beside me. My stories. 

I’ve watched families move in and out of this house. I tried to stay out of the way. But certain things went missing, things I stole and kept in my small space I occupied in the attic. The child, a girl, of one family sensed my presence. I tried not to scare her. But she’d often sleep with the light on, insisting there was a ghost to which her parents would say, “that’s enough, Maggie Mae. Go to bed.”

But for a while now, the house had laid empty. I was alone with nowhere to go. No great beyond awaited me. Perhaps this was my fate, to wander these familiar walls. I watched as a realtor showed a family of four around. A handsome husband, a demure wife, and their teenage daughter and young son. The teenager daughter wandered into the room once occupied by my daughter in life. She breathed in deeply and I knew that she sensed my presence. Her body went stiff and then she exited the room. “I don’t like this house,” she whispered to her mother. “It’s creepy.”

The house stood majestically on Rosebud Lane, a striking Victorian gem nestled in a quaint town in Maine. Its presence was undeniable, with intricate architectural details that told stories of a bygone era. As you entered, you were greeted by a grand mahogany staircase that spiraled elegantly to the upper floors, the polished wood gleaming in the soft light that filtered through the tall windows.

The walls were adorned with rich, dark wood paneling that exuded warmth and sophistication in the hallways, while a beautifully crafted fireplace in the living room promised cozy evenings filled with crackling flames and the scent of burning logs and the walls in there were painted a rich red. The kitchen was a spacious gathering place, featuring a large island perfect for preparing meals or sharing stories over morning coffee, the heart of the home.

With four generously sized bedrooms and two and a half bathrooms, the house offered ample space for family and guests alike. A charming spiral staircase wound its way from a cozy nook off the kitchen, leading up to the attic—a hidden treasure waiting to be discovered. Each corner of the house was infused with character, inviting both nostalgia and the promise of new memories yet to come. It was more than just a house; it was a sanctuary steeped in history, ready to embrace the lives that would unfold within its walls.

The house was once my home and now, it was my prison. I couldn’t leave it. I couldn’t move on to the promised afterlife I had heard about in church when I was alive. Perhaps this was my punishment for taking my own life. And in the endless days I spent in this house that was once my home, I scolded myself for doing something so irresponsible. 

One day, as the sun cast gentle rays through the dust motes dancing in the air, a woman stepped into the house, instantly transforming its atmosphere. She was draped in a long, flowing pastel green dress that seemed to sway gracefully with her every movement, embodying a sense of serenity. Over her dress, she wore a dark green cardigan, which contrasted beautifully with the delicate hue of her attire and added an air of cozy elegance.

Her hair, a vibrant shade of fiery red, cascaded down her shoulders in soft waves, catching the light and shimmering like flames. But it was her eyes that truly captivated—soft blue and inviting, they held a depth that suggested a wealth of stories waiting to be shared. Around her neck, she wore a delicate necklace adorned with a symbol I couldn’t quite recognize; it glimmered subtly, as if harboring secrets of its own. In her hand, she had a bundle of sage and she began to burn it not long after she entered the house. 

“I come in peace,” she said softly, her voice laced with a Downeast Maine accent that was so familiar. “I mean you no harm. I only offer a way for you to move on.” I followed her as she walked around the house with her burning sage. It had a comforting aroma. She stopped in the heart of the living room and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. “Tell me your name.”

I had never tried speaking. I didn’t know if I could. So I thought of the name my mother gave me upon my birth. Priscilla. 

She nodded. “I heard you, Priscilla.”

I was shocked. This woman was clairvoyant. In life, I thought this sort of thing was a crock. A lie people told about themselves. I yearned to know more about her. 

“How long have you been dead?”

I don’t know. 

She nodded her pretty head again. “What was the last year you were alive?”

1946.

“1946. That was a long time ago, Priscilla. It’s 2024.”

My heart sank. Were my children still alive? They’d be old now. I wondered if they have children of their own. I wondered if they remembered me and shared stories of me with their children. 

“How did you die, Priscilla?”

I killed myself. I took a bottle of barbiturates and drowned it with wine. 

“Mhmm,” she hummed, her eyes closed. “I can feel your energy. You are tired. You long for rest.”

Yes! 

“I’m going to help you rest now, Priscilla.” She kept her eyes closed and a smile formed on her face. “You were beautiful, Priscilla.”

I could have easily laughed at her compliment, dismissing it as a kind gesture that didn’t reflect reality. In my eyes, beauty was a distant concept, far removed from my own existence. I considered myself a quintessential plain Jane—truly as unremarkable as they come.

At just five foot two, I often felt dwarfed by the world around me. My hair, a dull mousy brown, hung limply around my face, lacking any luster or charisma. It was the kind of color that seemed to fade into the background, much like I often did in social situations. And my eyes? Well, they were a murky shade of grayish-blue, reminiscent of snow that had been sullied by mud and debris after a long winter. They lacked the sparkle that drew people in, the kind of eyes that could tell a story or evoke a feeling.

I wore my insecurities like a heavy cloak, weighing me down and coloring my perception of myself. To me, I was just another face in the crowd, invisible amidst the beauty and vibrancy that surrounded me. So when she spoke those words, they felt like a playful jest rather than an honest observation. In my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder if she had her eyes closed or if she was simply being polite. When I was alive, I was obsolete. I blended in. I wasn’t anything to write home about. I remember when my husband, then just someone I was courting, introduced me to his mother. She looked down at me and then back at him, with an expression that said, “that’s the best you could do?” 

“You don’t believe me,” the woman said, a serene smile still on her face. She reached into her pocket and rang a bell. The air in the room seemed to chill. Time, which for me had been an infinite loop, seemed to stop. I was still. “I’m here to offer you a way to move on, Priscilla.”

She moved into the kitchen. I watched her as she set the burning sage down on the kitchen counter top. From her pockets, she pulled crystals of various shades. She set them out one by one on the counter top. She closed her eyes again. She began to murmur something I couldn’t quite hear. “Priscilla, you’re about to see a white light.”

I looked around. And in the hallway behind me, there seemed to be a glow. A shimmering glow. I felt drawn to it. 

“You’re going to walk towards that white light.”

I took meek steps towards the illuminated hallway. 

“You’re going to step into the white light and you’ll be free from this mortal realm.”

I moved hesitantly toward the radiant white light, a shimmering beacon that beckoned me with promises of peace and rest. Yet, despite the overwhelming fatigue that weighed upon me, fear gnawed at the edges of my resolve. I had longed for rest, but now that it was within reach, a deep-seated anxiety clawed at my heart. What awaited me in the afterlife?

Growing up, I had been steeped in beliefs that painted a stark picture of morality and consequence. The teachings of my childhood echoed in my mind, reminding me that suicide was considered a grave sin—one of the most serious transgressions in the eyes of those who had guided me. Would I be condemned to eternal suffering, cast into a hell of my own making? The thought sent a shiver through me, a visceral reminder of the weight of my choices.

As I stood on the precipice, the allure of the light was almost intoxicating, promising solace and an escape from the pain that had driven me here. Yet, the shadows of my upbringing loomed large, casting doubt over the purity of my intentions. I questioned whether I would be met with forgiveness or judgment, with acceptance or damnation. If I had a beating heart, it would be racing as I grappled with the paradox of my desires—yearning for peace, yet terrified of the repercussions that might follow.

“I sense you’re afraid,” the woman said softly. “Don’t be afraid.”

I believed her completely. As I stepped into the shimmering light, an exhilarating sensation washed over me, as if a great weight was being lifted from my shoulders. The familiar surroundings of the house began to fade away, dissolving into nothingness, and I found myself transported to a place unlike any I had ever known. It was a vast expanse of pure white, an ethereal realm that felt both serene and infinitely inviting. The light enveloped me, wrapping me in warmth and tranquility, as if I had crossed into a world untouched by pain or sorrow. Here, everything was peaceful, and I felt an overwhelming sense of belonging, as if I had finally come home.

“Mom?” A voice said. 

I turned around and saw what looked to be my daughter. A tall, grand woman in white clothing, her hair the color of daffodils and her eyes bright, striking blue. She was beautiful and older than when I had left her. She moved towards me. “Mom. We’ve been waiting for you.”

She enveloped me in a warm embrace, and in that moment, I felt a profound sense of comfort and love—everything I had longed for over countless years. I wrapped my arms around her, returning the gesture with a depth of emotion I could hardly express. As I inhaled the scent of her hair, a delicate blend of floral notes and something uniquely hers, I was filled with a sense of safety and belonging. It was as if all my past heartaches melted away, replaced by an overwhelming warmth that wrapped around us both like a soft blanket, making everything feel right in the world.

“We?” I said quietly as we separated. 

“Yes. Me and Dad. You weren’t here when we arrived.”

I didn’t know what to say to her. Shame washed over me like rageful waves of the ocean. I bowed my head. “I had been…stuck.”

I could see that Moira wanted to ask more questions but a calm expression came over her face. “Come. Let’s go find Dad.”

I followed Moira deeper into the shimmering whiteness, each step drawing me further into a realm of tranquility. The brilliance surrounded me, and with each movement, I felt the burdens of my past begin to fade away. At last, a profound sense of peace settled within me, surrounding my spirit like a gentle embrace. It was as if I had finally arrived at a destination I had been yearning for all along, a place where I could simply be free. And finally, I had what I wanted; Peace at last in this realm I didn’t think I’d ever get to. I felt tears on my cheeks. I felt emotions I hadn’t felt in years. Was this paradise? The promised paradise I heard so much about in church as a girl? I intertwined my fingers with Moira’s and she looked at me, smiling, and appeared as a small girl rather than the fully grown woman I had initially seen. Her cheeks were fat and her eyes were expressive. She laughed and ran ahead of me and I followed her further into the unknown. 

At last, I found true peace. I could finally allow myself to rest, to surrender to the tranquility that surrounded me. It was a deep, soothing calm that washed over my entire being, inviting me to let go of all tension and worry, all the guilt and shame, all the restlessness, and the anger I felt at myself for what I had done. I felt as though I could drift away into a serene stillness, embraced by the comforting stillness around me. Paradise, indeed.