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There's been talk about DeLoreans and Time Machines here, here, here, here and here. This is my contribution to that thread.
I'd been living sans Mr. Scabs for a few months when he handed me an envelope. I turned it over in my palms confused by the pasted drawings all over it. Time machines. He had carefully cut and pasted pictures of time machines all over the envelope. In another time, the gesture would have been cute and quirky, like the Mr. Scabs I knew before he was Mr. Scabs.
Inside was an apology but back then, it wasn't enough. No matter how sincere or sorry he thought he was, I knew he wasn't.
After reading it, I scribbled across his words, this is a lie! His black tongue told nothing but lies. The distance between his words and his heart was colossal.
More than a dozen times I screamed, "Build a damn time machine!" to his endless requests wondering how he could fix this mess.
I left him hopeless. Even Mr. Scabs, who's an inventor and creator by nature, couldn't build a time machine. He was incompetent. I mean, really, how did he expect to fix this?
So, I hung a hammock.
Time stops in a hammock. Taking idle moments under the green canopy of an orange tree, my feet dangle and the swaying temporarily erases anxiety. Returning to the womb. A time to slip between dreams and a soft reality.
Almost the whole of summer 2011 was spent in my backyard time machine.
A year later, I still erase moments in my time machine. I've spent entire afternoons in the hammock. Sometimes a wiggly child will join me, or a lady dog will uneasily lick my feet till she gets bopped in the nose, or I'll be left with my thoughts. Collectively searching to make sense of the past and present.
Although, I may have the occasional afternoon getaway, there's much less time spent in the time machine than last summer. Progress, right? Nothing is clear, there are no guarantees but I feel the evolution of myself.
There are moments of depth.
There are times of understanding.
And, maybe even moments of love.