When I touch handwriting, my psychic gift lets me mentally jump dimensional time to view the thoughts and emotions in the writer’s mind as they write. It’s a bit like watching the past on 3D television, only the outfits are more authentic.
Metaphorically, I’m a grave robber. I don’t actually dig up graves. Well, okay, sometimes. But only when all evidence points to the family’s lost treasure being in the casket. Hell, when that happens, the deceased’s family throws a bring-your-own-shovel-party.
My other sense allows me to connect with a spirit through a grave, but grave groveling takes longer, is not as focused, and is harder on clothes and manicures.
Seated on Claudia Reese Jones’ restored Genoa couch, I breathed in the fresh orange oil tang of her antique furniture’s polish. Viggo, my guardian angel, whom only I can see, stood eyeing Claudia’s laptop. I gave him my fiercest don’t you dare touch it look and he backed away. He relishes pulling electrical equipment apart and peering inside but can never put Humpty back together again.
Hand resting on Clyde’s writing, I let my mind go blank. The mental door to my inherited psychic gift opened. The dimensions of time and space collided in their own miniature big bang. Guiding my spiritual hand, I sorted through dates on the journal pages until the one I was looking for eased across my mind. Swirls of light and ether spun as I melded the dimensions of today and the day of the page. I pulled the portal down like a blind.
An opaque membrane of a time past overlaid the now.
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