More things in Heaven and Earth

The Spanish Moss is a drape that I almost have to push aside. It hangs low and it hangs far, but I duck down just enough to avoid touching the stuff. Redbugs live in the hairy clumps, and tourists usually don't find out about that little treat until they're reaching for calamine lotion or Benadryl.

From where I stand in the thick, mossy woods, I can see a river. It reminds me of sweet tea under the sunshine, slipping towards the sea. On the opposite bank, I watch a boy climb up onto steel stairs. He scrambles, straightens, and steps over to the floating wooden dock. Above him, perched on the stairs, is an older woman smoking a cigarette. She looks out into the quiet woods, her eyes hidden behind glaring glasses. The afternoon is brutally hot, but she doesn't mind. Ashes flicked into the current flow downstream while smoke curls upward.

The boy perches, toes over the edge, hands up above his head. He dives, arching high enough to avoid hitting the green johnboat moored along the dock. He surfaces, wiping water from his face as his knees plant on the sandy river bottom.

The boy crawls along until the water grows ever more shallow, leading to a sandbar. There, the river gives him everything he needs to build a sandcastle. It isn't elegant, it doesn't hold together well, but he scoops and stacks anyway.

"Let's get ready for supper," the woman says, stubbing out her More on the steel steps. She stands, the butt between fingers to toss into an ashtray on the porch.

"Okay!" The boy yells, abandoning his construction project and running back into the water. He takes his time in the deeper part of the river, savoring the cool, flowing water for another minute before finishing his journey up the stairs.

I watch them both walk towards a large porch attached to a small singlewide mobile home. Doors open, slam shut, and close for good.

The trailer is smaller than I remember, and the large porch really isn't.

The boy isn't as big as I remember him being, but he's plenty portly.

His grandmother doesn't look sick yet.

Spanish moss isn't the only thing clouding my vision, and it isn't sweat running into my eyes.

I turn away, and reopen the door to anywhere.

When I pop back into the bedroom I know as the "now," a voice greets me.

"That's what you choose? In all of human history, any time, any place, you pick a place nowhere special in a year no one remembers?"

The voice isn't mocking, it's incredulous.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and laugh. Sobs follow, and I have a hard time breathing.

When I can speak, my voice is a hoarse shell of normal. "I don't know who you are, where you're from, or why you're here, but thank you."

"You don't believe you've squandered this gift?" Again, the tone strikes me not as insulting, but mellow, curious, with a hint of awe.

"If you're here, then there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in philosophy."

"I don't understand humans."

"What if Heaven is what we make it, and that door of yours showed me mine?"

"You were a peeping tom in your own timeline. Peering through a forested riverbank, stealing glances of you and your grandmother. I give you an opportunity people only dream of, and your choice is...unique."

"Is it? I'm not special. I'm not unique. I'm just a boy who wants to swim in the river with his grandmother again."

With an audible snap that is felt more than heard, the djinn is gone, but memories still remain.