I’ve been called a recluse. It’s true, I suppose. It was meant as an accusation but how can I live an ordinary life in the ordinary world after what I have experienced? Some events carry you wholly out of what most see
as reality and into a place of possibilities and questions. Now that I’m eighty-eight years old I live in the mystery—and the memories. And I wait.
I once found a poem in a book by his bedside. He had made a one word notation in the margin of the book: Jennifer. It was a poem by Robert Browning:
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith, “A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid.”
I’ve grown old without him or at least the physical part of him for he is always with
me and that is my truth. He’s always been at the edge of me even when I thought I wasn’t thinking of him—a flicker of light, a warm whisper in my bed at night, a sudden feather-soft touch could stop me in my tracks while I would look
around waiting for him to reach for me. He has been woven into the very fabric of my long life, a life laced with wonder. On some mornings I wake with tears in my eyes half-remembering dreams. I swear I can smell the clean scent of him, of
fields and sea. I can faintly hear his music, feeling again the summer that changed everything.
Humanity, as the centuries pass, always thinks it knows “truth”
but each century reveals that the truths of the past are but fallacies. Once it was truth that the world was flat. Once it was truth that the sun revolved around the earth. Humans capable of flight was absurd. Walking on the
moon was the stuff of science fiction. Now most live in the fallacy that space and time are fixed. Quantum theory suggests that space and time are one: Spacetime. What does this say about our “truth” that time is a straight line
from past to present to future?
This is where my story really begins: in Space-time.