MAYBE THIS TIME
A letter to Kay.
Dear Kay,
Maybe this one will reach you. I’m writing it on paper, the real stuff, with my best fountain pen. There’s a lull in customers today. Like all days now. So, I thought I would write you.
Do you remember what it feels like to put pen on paper?
I know, for someone with your experience, it seems outdated and simple and stupid. But Kay, it’s magical, the way the pen kisses the paper, pulls away, goes in for another. And when you’re done writing, you’ve created something beautiful. Or, at least you tried.
Sorry, I’m rambling.
I saw Derrick this morning. Truth be told, he’s one of the only people who comes in nowadays. Why read, right? Derrick also wants to know how you’re doing. And, well, he wants you to know that he’s not with anyone else.
He’ll wait for you, no matter how long it takes.
Sometimes I wonder what you do in there. You and the rest of the world, I guess. I still remember the day you stepped in: They had livestreams of people entering the portals in Times Square, the Eiffel Tower, they even put one in the middle of the desert in Senegal. Did you know that? Senegal, really.
. . .
The scientists told us back then that we could expect most of you to be back out in a couple of days. They said that’s all you need, that you’d get tired of the past––living in it, breathing our ancestors’ air. It’s just a simulation, after all. Accurate, yes, but the scientists said you’d all get bored.
But three years later, you’re still not back. Almost none of you are. The ones who did come back, the stragglers, didn’t make it long before going back in. They stepped out of the portals, got jobs or maybe relationships, then stumbled back in as quickly as they could. Here was a bad dream.
Did you know they’re saying that it’s like a drug?
As for me, I’m doing OK. Nobody reads books or buys pens anymore. In any case, the shop makes for a good place to write. I’m so close to finishing my big novel. I hope you’ll read it someday––it was always my dream for you to read it.
Kay, don’t forget how beautiful it is up here.
I know things are beautiful in the past, too. But this morning, right now, it’s lovely. The sun is just starting to spill its final light into the office. Soon, there’ll be moonlight on the terrace. Remember when you and Derrick and me and Melissa would drink champagne up there, laughing until the sunrise?
I should get wrapping up now.
. . .
This morning, I visited Mom and Dad. There are fresh flowers on them now. Roses for Mom, tulips for Dad. Their favorite ones (you know that). They aren’t coming back, Kay. No amount of time in the past is going to fix that.
It’s lonely here and I want you back.
I want to talk about philosophy in my bookstore again. I want to see you and Derrick happy again. I want to read to you like I did when we were kids, again. I realized I even kind of like the way you chew those salt & vinegar Lays’ so loudly you could hear it over a thunderstorm.
I know you have everyone in the past. But here in the real world, Kay? I have me, my bookshop, Derrick, and Melissa. And you know what else I have? I have a missing little sister who I love very, very much.
And I wish she would come back.
Sincerely,
Your favorite (and only) brother.
P.S. I wonder if, when the scientists were building the portals, they realized that with each new part put in place, each new step towards the past, they were erasing our future?