Open Letter To The Time Traveler In My Basement

Dear sir or madam,

To be sure, it is with great frustration I write this open letter. You see, I have begun to notice, over the past few months, evidence of your existence in my basement. Each time I descend the stairs I experience a static-electricity event that causes the hairs on my arms to stand out. Great flashing and an indescribable ripping sound emanate from the very deep reaches, just behind the furnace but when I poke my flashlight around the dark corner there is nothing there but the strong smell of ozone.

For a long time I told myself I was being foolish. There is nothing supernatural happening in your house, I told myself. There is nothing regular-natural happening either, I then needlessly chided. Admit it, I accused on several occasions, there is nothing special about any of this. Look around. What do I see? I see nothing anyone would covet. I see photographs of people I no longer recognize. Most of them are me. I have arranged them in chronological order along the narrow hallway and, as I walk nightly to my lonely room I watch the passing of time and am reminded of apples left to rot.

I had a dog but his time ran too fast. I miss him from time to time. I've thought about getting another but I fear I would grow too fond of it and suffer needlessly with the passing of dog-years. That is the practical nature of age, you begin to limit the sweet in order to mitigate the bitter.

I did not mind the isolation. It was somehow comforting to know that things stayed the way I left them. That I was outside the river of chaos, floating comfortably in an eddy of predictability. Those who do not attempt to swim rarely drown. I was never a swimmer.

How long have you been down there? Or is that even an accurate question for a time traveler? Do you feel the passage of time anymore or are you now aside of it, staring at we who are trapped, as a child would observe an ant farm? Do you bring elements of one time to another like campfire smoke lingering on a sweater?

Why did you leave the letter? I wrote it and tore it up. It was never supposed to be sent. It was just a way to get thoughts out of my head and now it sits in its obviousness on my kitchen table. What possible purpose could it serve to go through all the rigmarole of defying physics only to return a torn up letter that was written with way too much unrealistic hope? And did you bring the addressed envelope from another time, or just walk to the drug store?

Are you from the future or the past? I am from the past. I am from a specific moment in the past. It defines and limits me. It takes away many choices that create future. I am from the signing of the letter. The moment of completion, after I had placed my dreams in the real world but before I could regret doing so.

Do you move often through time? Is it dizzying? Do you lose track of time ever? Is there a sense of uncertainty in jumping into the void? In those moments do you feel more alive? A political canvasser came by today and knocked on my door. I pretended not to be home. He knocked again an hour later and I stood with my cheek to the warm wood of the door and begged myself to answer, to acknowledge the simple fact that I need others. That I am alone by choice but I no longer want to be lonely. I was weak and he left.

If you do carry remnants of one time to another, does it begin to level out time the way a canal will cause two lakes to reach equilibrium? Eventually, will the past, present and future just become "places" instead of "times"? Places to visit, as if the Great Depression were a theme-park or World War II was a museum? Do you change things? Big things? If I could change things it would be the day of the letter because I'm deathly afraid of what's coming next!

I want to go with you! Is that possible? Can someone from the present travel or do you have to be from the past or future? I want to leave the present. It does not suit me! I want to dive into the future and feel alive, even if that alive-ness carries with if fear! Will I meet myself? The me that embraces uncertainty? I would like to have a talk with him.

Have we done this before? Did I go with you? Did it change time? If so, why am I back here, or did I splinter into two realities and the other me faced the unknown while I stayed cowardly at home refusing to open a knocked-upon door. I can't do that anymore. I must leave and you must take me with you. Let that other me stay cowardly at home this time.

I am ready. I will meet you in the basement, behind the furnace and I will bring nothing but my clothes. We will find what we need as we go. I barely recognize the nervous churning in my belly, it's been so very long.

Will I go through with it? If so, will I be changed? If not, will I tear up this letter again? And if I do, will you return it once more? Or is this my one and only chance?

See you next time,

James

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