Parting Glances: Ten in Seventh Heaven (Pt. 1)

MODEST DISCLAIMER: There are several books about afterlife experiences on the New York Times Best Seller list, including one by a 5-year-old kid (with a little grammar and spelling help from his word-savvy dad).
Another anesthesia-induced afterlife tale is by a bonafide MD who surely is more interested in immortal research rather than in eternal revenue. (Be that as it may, it's a real metaphysical progress that for the first time a rainbow voice — mine! — is granted heavenly consideration.)
Many such intriguing tales are what's called in the metaphysical publishing business, out-of-body experiences. Now and then, these fabrications are identified as lucid dreams. (Unfortunately, too many of my recent lucid dreams have been about Log Cabin Republicans with Donald Trump hairdos and golfing over — and/or under — hangs.) Oh, well.
This is my own, rather extended, OBE account. Though tempted, I'm not writing this for the money (Just want to keep that IRS-tracking record, er, straight. Criss cross my heart. Hold your breath, but not for too long.).
It's 12:02 a.m. according to my VeriSmart iPhone when, preoccupied with my Grindr messages from a busy Sunday — that fortunately included, by coincidence, attendance earlier at an ecumenical, non-evangelical, Trump-supporting church — I fall into an extra-large, long-standing, Gov. Engler-initiated, GOP-scanctioned pothole — for which tourist-traveled Michigan is noted and so favorably acclaimed nationally.
No sooner have I lost my mortal LGBTQA consciousness when I see the proverbial "light at the end of the tunnel." Intrigued, I move closer and closer, somewhat startled, pleasantly surprised, that the light is bright rainbow colors. Suddenly, the air is filled with an overwhelming scent. No! It's not pot. It's … patchouli! (Truly a heavenly sign.)
Not quite sure that I am, so to speak, "not in Kansas anymore," I cautiously look about. And while the afterlife streets here are not made of 24 karat Cartier gold, they're not unlike Dorothy's Yellow Brick Road. Each brick carries a name and a date marked in cursive writing, "Came Out . . ."
And, seemingly out of nowhere, 10,000 off-Broadway voices begin to sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". The familiar medley is interrupted by my cellphone ring. (I pray my phone's brilliant pixel capacity does justice to the zillions of showbiz pictures I'm planning to take.)
"Hey, Big Guy, welcome home. Head to Seventh Heaven Condos, corner of Oscar Wilde Boulevard and Alice B. Toklas Avenue. Ask for Truman Capote, concierge. Say Between The Lines sent you. Trump will love that. Oh, yes! Be sure to bypass the nearby GOP cul-de-sac. It leads in the opposite direction."
I type in GPS — not GOP — directions, kick up my heels — suddenly realizing my size 13s are red — and start to float effortlessly above a crowd of well-wishers below me waving banners. "Get you, Mary!" "You look Heavenly!" "Don't look a day over 30-something!" "Hubba Hubba Hallelujah!"
My aerial acrobatics are elating, joyful and free-spirited. Surely, I'm dreaming I say to myself as I soar effortlessly into the wild blue yonder,
My flight of newfound fancy lands me abruptly, but ever so softly, in front of Seventh Heaven: 121. Its sign reads, "It Takes One to Know One!"
"Welcome. Mary! It's your guardian angel, Tru."