Elegy

I spoke without thinking

As I am prone to do

She listened without judging

Her nature was as true

Whether the day of our first date

Or on the day that we wed

She kept me well grounded

With soft words softly said

“Stay true to yourself,

But stay truer to me”

“Know what you want,

Know what you can be”

“Passion is for lovers

But love has its own passion”

“Give all from your store

Deny me no ration”

I hear these words

As I hear the gravesman cease

I must now live without her

I must give her, her peace

These were the last words I ever spoke, to others, about my wife. I departed the ceremony resigned never again to speak, never again to marry, never again to love.

I almost kept my promise. I'm glad that I did not.

Notebook, Page #01:

Five years to the day I recited that elegy; I found what I was looking for, a chink in the armor of science, a possibility that man has dreamed of since the dawn of time. In a nutshell, I found time. I found all the time in the world. I found a way to travel back in time, with severe spatial and energy constraints, to revisit the exact when and where I wanted. I already owned the house of the where; all I had to do was decide the moment of the when. And of course, pay for the trip. And of course, I did.

First is the hypothesis. Time travel is easy, almost too easy. It’s a wonder no one ever thought of this before. The secret is the acceleration of mass, not the velocity of the mass. If you can change the speed in which mass travels forward in time, with a negative acceleration, for long enough, you can travel back in time. At least, that is my theory.

Second are the details. To accomplish this prolonged negative acceleration, one must reconcile with Newton’s Third Law of Motion. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. To travel backward in time five years, I had to instantly age forward in time (chronologically) five years. Since I was 52 at the moment I discovered this idea, I had precious time to waste.

Third are the limitations. I think I have isolated all the (known) limitations of my invention. The maximum time I could travel (backward) was five years, thus my hasty departure. I did not know how many times I could accomplish this journey for I did not know how long I would live. My device only worked in one direction. To travel (forward) in time was still beyond my creative capacity (other than just waiting the five years) to overcome. So, if a single trip should prove useless or a single calculation be in error, I would find myself 62 (52 plus my 5 year price to travel plus the 5 year wait) before I could return to my point of origin and try again. The device does not make the trip, only I do.

If you are reading this, scrutinize my workspace for an older version of myself. If I suddenly appear, then I will try the device again for I have failed at my previous attempt to correct what all believe to be uncorrectable. I will die of old age trying to save my wife or die of old age living with my wife. My die is cast. Hers still tumbles.

Notebook, Page #02:

I returned precisely the instant I departed. I am now gray of hair, somewhat arthritic, and with a substantial police record, albeit in an assumed name and identity. Where did it go wrong? I answer only for posterity. My destination became a mere twenty seconds before the murderous driver was to turn the corner of our street and careen toward my wife. I saw the first and ran toward her to prevent the second. I screamed and she heard enough to divert her gait to avoid disaster. She, however, turned around to run away, only to be struck by another vehicle heading in the opposite direction. I found myself in a position where someone may recognize me and become confused, possibly accusative. Because of my fear, I ran past my fallen wife. In such a visible display of carnage, witnesses did indeed file police reports stating I was an accomplice of the inebriated driver.

As such, I had to surface frequently, in places other than I normally visit, to prove the 57 to 62 year old version of me was not the 52 year old version of me. As the former, I found myself constantly on the run and in frequent periods of limited incarceration. As the latter, I was free to build my time machine and use it to view my wife’s ruinous end. I return to my work, in my house, somewhat older, somewhat wiser, with scant time for preparations for what may be my last attempt to save my wife. To anyone reading my notes, these pages do not reflect the insane ramblings of an old man. They are the trials and tribulations that true love forces me to endure. I must succeed.

Notebook, Page #03:

What I write, I write with a shaky hand and poor vision. I am now 72, but feel 102. This attempt nearly killed me before I had the opportunity to persevere. My arrival predated the changed disaster of my first arrival by ten seconds. Just enough time to have a heart attack from the shock of instantly aging the 5 years it took to travel. A visible, doddery senior citizen undergoing cardiac arrest was enough to force my wife to concentrate exclusively on my well-being. In doing so, she entered the street at the exact moment preceding the first reason I took to time traveling. I witnessed her avoid the northbound drunken driver and the southbound additional equally lethal driver.

This time, what killed my wife was a broken heel and the subsequent fall to the pavement. Ironically, she died moments after recognizing me from her head wound. This time, I saw her smile. I did not ask why. I could not ask why. I awoke the next day in a geriatric hospital. Once again, to avoid confusion, I had to lie about my identity and not interfere with either of my two previous versions of myself. In retrospect, I have failed. I will make one more trip, back to that moment, with a written explanation. If I can give it to her before either of us dies, then I will have that opportunity to smile back at her. If I can’t, then I shall die trying. The trip will most likely kill me.

Notebook, Page #04:

I rarely knew what he wanted when he was living. However, his will stipulated that I had to read this notebook of theories (his words; I called them science fiction stories) of time travel. The fact that I am finishing the last entry speaks volumes of how much I loved this fool during our 31 years together. He was a good husband and a better father. He revered his employment at his engineering firm as sacred. I accepted that when I married him. What I did not accept was the scatterbrain fiction he spent hours, days, and years upon in this garage he referred to as “his lab”. I see no inventions. I see no visible evidence of success. I only see the remnants of a man that should have retired, when he promised, at 52, and not forever tinkering until he passed on. I speak harshly when I should use soft words in a soft voice. I kept him well grounded and demanded all his passion. I know I never judged him. I loved him for what he was, a husband who remained true to me, as I was to him.