In Memory of: Nichelle Nichols

Kyle checked his watch. "How late are you gonna be this time?" he asked the empty space (because she was predictably not there). "Lord, grant me the strength and the hours tacked back onto my life ..." "Stars are allowed to keep you waiting," she would purr when she arrived, and play the princess for a hot minute for comic relief and forgiveness. The place was sad and a little creepy, like a deserted hospital, and cheap close up (like if you touched the surface, you'd break the styrofoam underneath). A light caught his attention; a button was blinking. Kyle walked over to the console and grinned, feeling mischievous; he pushed the button. "This is Kyle, how may I help you today?" he said warmly. "Honey ...," came the voice. It was soft, tender, and far away. "Permission to beam up." "What the ...," Kyle reacted, pulling away. "Honey ...," the voice came again, elegant and measured. "Permission to beam up." His eyes filled with tears. "Mom?" he asked the voice. "Come on now; lemme bring the car around." "Honey ...," the voice whispered. "Requesting ... requesting ... requesting ..." And Kyle, knowing what this was and trying not to know what this was, leaned into a crush of emotions and responded, "Granted." In the silence that followed, he stumbled on the empty set, feeling lost, steadying himself by sitting briefly in the captain's chair. He caught a movement over his right shoulder and turned quickly; there she was for a moment with those cheekbones, that silhouette, that impossible feline beauty. Kyle started to speak, but woke up instead (to the light on his phone flashing steadily). "I love you, Mom," he whispered. "Thank you for keeping the stars waiting."