"Do you realize what this means?" I exclaimed, barely able to contain my enthusiasm.

Harry looked at me with wide, enquiring eyes, and frowned.

"Our jobs just got a whole lot easier," I continued, staring at the little treasure resting on the palm of my hand.

He kept his eyes on me, an incredulous look on his face, "Love, it's just a watch..."

"You don't believe me."

Now it was my turn to frown. I extended my arm and offered him the pocket watch, "Go ahead. Try it."

He didn't move.

"Take the watch!" I repeated, a bit more intensely this time.

He must have seen the glimmer in my eyes because he hesitantly cupped the thing and started examining it.

"Listen, I'm gonna punch you now-"

"What the hell, Anton?"

"I'm gonna punch you now and, as soon you see me moving, you pull the crown," I explained. "You'll be fine."

"Anton, I don't-"

I didn't let him finish. Harry was a lot of things, but a man of actions he was not. He would rather talk and analyze and examine every little thing before actually acting, and, dear god, sometimes it was unbearable.

I thrust my fist towards his nose, sure enough that I’d miss. I didn’t hold back. Sweet baby Jesus, I didn’t hold back... I didn’t even realize I hit him until he rocketed backwards, leaving a trail of blood spatter behind.

“Oh my god, babe!”

He fell with force on the wooden desk and tumbled down, tipping it over alongside him. I rushed to his side, and placed my arm on his back. Blood was dripping down his nose and the Hawaiian shirt I’d bought on our honeymoon was painted red. Despite the absurdity of the situation, I didn’t feel like laughing. I was mostly shocked. I had never laid a hand on him before -what was I even thinking?

Idiot.

“Here, let me get you something.”

I got up and went to the bathroom, returning with a freshly washed towel at hand. I, then, proceeded to the kitchen for some ice.

“You punched me…” I heard his muffled voice and peaked through the door.

“I told you I’d punch you, babe.”

“Don’t you ‘babe’ me. You punched me!”

“I’m sorry… I thought you’d stop me.”

“How? How was I supposed to stop you?”

“With the watch, silly. I told you to pull the crown.”

“Well, I didn’t,” he pouted.

“Yes, I can see…”

“Are you going to hand me the ice-pack or what?”

I pecked his forehead. “You’re lucky it didn’t break.”

“You're lucky it didn’t break,” he retorted, “’cause there would have been hell to pay.”

“I promise to make it up to you in the bedroom,” I slyly grinned and he cracked a smile.

Phew… Situation diffused.

“Hey, where’s the pocket watch?” I suddenly remembered the reason my partner was on the floor bleeding.

“The watch that magically stops time, you mean?” he mocked me.

I scanned the room and saw it under the armchair, its screen slightly cracked.

“Oh damn, I hope it still works.”

“If you punch me again-” he squinted, his emerald eyes spitting fire.

God, I loved those eyes, little specks of olive amid a grass field. I loved how his nose wrinkled when he was upset. I loved the creases on his forehead when he was in deep thought. I loved how his mouth would slightly curve after a job well done. I resisted the urge to undress him there and then. We would have plenty of time for that later.

“No, let’s try something else this time, okay? Are you good? Can you stand up?”

He nodded and I heaved him to his feet. I brought a glass of water from the kitchen and gave him the same instructions as before. I let the glass go and it smashed on the floor, breaking into dozens of pieces.

“Great, and now the glass broke,” he cocked an eyebrow.

“...you were supposed to pull the crown.”

“Listen, I just got punched on the nose and I’m in terrible pain. I can barely see straight.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours?”

“Okay, yeah, I punched you, but why won’t you do as I say?”

“Because it’s stupid!” he boomed. “What’s gotten into you? Blabbing about some time stopping watch-”

“Just give it a chance. I’m not crazy. I didn’t make this up.”

“Oh, are you going to break another glass now?”

“Just pull the bloody cro--”

“--wn!”

“Whoa!”

His mouth was a perfectly shaped ‘O’ only surpassed in roundness by his eyes. He looked at me speechless.

“You pulled the crown while I was talk--”

“--ing, didn’t you?” I sneered.

“Oh my god!”

“See? I told you I didn’t ma--”

“--ke this up.”

“Whoa! It actually stops time!”

“Do you under--”

“--stand now?”

“Every time I pull the crown, it stops time…” he repeated in a daze.

“Wait, how many ti--”

“--mes have you do--”

“--ne this?”

He suddenly burst out laughing, his contagious giggle impossible for me to resist. I followed suit and we found ourselves on the floor cracking up, hugging, kissing like mad men.

After we both settled down and wiped our tears off, we looked at each other, glint in our eyes. No more racing time, no more failures, no more running from the cops. Just a simple pulling of the crown and we would be able to get into any building, any bank and take everything we wanted without anyone even realizing there was a heist in place.

The world was ours. Riches awaited...

How far back do I go I ponder.

Back to the womb when I was safe and warm in my mothers belly.

To my first steps clumsy on fawn like legs not yet used to holding up my own weight.

Perhaps to that night when everything fell apart.

Or maybe a happier time when I was hopeful and believed that anything was possible.

I trace the gold filigree pattern on the front of the watch.

Open the case to check the time and close my eyes.

Unexpectedly the watch slips from my fingertips.

Falling onto the cement.

A shiny black loafer steps on it.

No I shout but no one is paying attention.

The watch now in two halves.

I hold the pieces together in my hand and twist the knob.

Nothing happens.

The decision it seems has been made for me.

I stare at it again, amazed. What I thought I saw happen, could not have just happened. This is some crazy dream, from which I will awake.

Except that it’s not. I woke up this morning. I grabbed a piece of toast, and a cup of coffee, and rode the tram to work. I walked down the street. I distinctly remember. . . I am awake.

I hold in my hand what I now believe to be the most powerful object in the world. Capable of doing more good than a thousand service projects, and capable of more destruction than a thousand nuclear bombs. Because this thing, this thing that fits so comfortably in the palm of my hand, is time.

People rush by on either side of me, going to work, going to meetings, starting their day, which is precisely what I should be doing. But I am standing on the edge of the curb, with a pocket watch that I just fished out of the gutter.

It looked to be of pure gold, and valuable, and without an owner. And now I am starting to wish I hadn’t picked it up.

But now that I’ve discovered its power. . . I want to see it work again. With my pointer finger and thumb, I grab the tiny crown jutting out of the pocket watch, feeling it’s rough ridges. I pull it out. It is as if time has just taken a sharp breath in, and is holding it.

The world around me is silenced, like when I push the mute button on the T.V., and everything is still, as if I have pushed pause. I look up from the watch in my hand. Just as before, the flocks of people around me have stopped in their tracks. It is almost scary. They look like wax figures, like statues. Every expression, every movement, everything that was happening in the moment I pulled. . . is captured. I look at the time on the face of the watch. 8:46

I slowly wind forwards, and their movement resumes, but in super-speed. Still muted. The sun is racing in the sky. People stop at cafes and eat meals in seconds, then proceed on their way.

I wind backwards, and their steps reverse. I keep winding until I am back at 8:46. I push the crown back in, and time exhales.

Movement resumes. For these people no time has passed at all. There was no pause between the last moment, and the one right now. And I have seen their futures. For me, they have not yet taken the steps to work, to the cafes, but for me it is already past . . . but it also hasn’t happened yet . . . but it’s happening right now.

I never liked sci-fi shows. I never liked books about time travel. Time has always been paradoxical to me. I’ve spent countless nights dwelling on movies that I’ve watched, wondering if the future is fixed, or if it can be changed. I wondered how time travelers would ever keep timelines and dimensions in balance without everything collapsing on itself.

I finger the pocket watch. Then I let it dangle like a pendulum on its chain resting on my pointer finger. I am standing right above a drain hole in the gutter. It’s teeth hang open, with water rushing underneath. It would be so easy to just let it fall. to let it go undiscovered.

But I can’t.

But I have to. No one should have this kind of power.

But I would use it for good. I could be a hero. I could fight crime. I could stop every bad thing that happened in the past because I would know it was coming. I could. . .

Save my parents. From the crash.

I grab the pocket watch with both hands, appalled that I was considering dropping it. But I’m not ready to save the world just yet. I want to make it through work first. I pop open the cover to look at the face of the pocket watch. 8:53. I am going to be late.

Then I smile. I slide the pocketwatch onto my neck. No I’m not.

After walking the rest of the way to the office building, (it is now 9:12) I pause outside the door. It is so easy. All I have to do is spin the hands backward to just before 9 o’clock, and I will be on time. I take a deep breath, pull the crown and start spinning. People speed-walk out of the door in reverse. I halt when the hands show 8:55.

And then a thought comes to me. I don’t like it. It’s the kind of perplexing thought that makes me hate the idea of time travel. It is 8:55. I was still walking here at 8:55. But I’m actually right here, outside the office building. . . Is there another version of me out there walking?

I decide to go check it out. After all, I have all the time I need.

And there I am. Standing on the streetcorner, unaware that time has stopped. It is so strange to look at myself. I am frozen mid-step, the pocket watch around my neck, black suit coat and skirt, blonde hair in a bun, but that isn’t me. But it also is.

It is scary. And I don’t like it.

I always hated when people took pictures of me when I didn’t know they were. I am looking off into the distance, and completely oblivious. I always hated looking at those pictures and wondering, do I really look like that? This is infinitely worse.

In time travel movies, usually the person isn’t allowed to see themselves, touch themselves, or something along those lines, because if they do the time stream, dimmensions, and all the universe will implode. Suddenly I want to see if that’s true.

I have a strong suspiscion that it’s not.

With the very tips of my fingers, and as softly as I’ve ever touched anything before, I reach out, and stroke my own cheek. I pull back instantly, expecting the universe imploding to commence. . . but it doesn’t. I touch her again.

She is-- I am-- so cold. I can feel the skin, but it also feels like a stone.

If I un-paused time right now, what would happen?

If I pulled the crown of the pocket watch up, and she walked right into me, what would happen?

Will there forever be two of me?

Panic starts to set in. I have split myself. Even if I go back to the office, this version of myself will still get there at 9:12. She will reverse time, and she will come back to this exact spot, and she will see herself.

There will always be two. I cannot run far enough into the future to get away from her, because she is me. Even if I go back to that moment. That moment where I was about to throw this stupid watch in the gutter, there will be the me who was there, and the me who is right now.

But will there actually be two?

Or do I stay in this timeline, and all the other me’s in their own? I guess that’s how time works normally, right? There was me when I was born, and then me as a girl, me as a teenager, me in college, me yesterday.

But I feel like it’s different now. Like I’ve messed everything up.

I sit down on the curb, in the eerie silence and stillness of frozen time. And out of that silence, a thought imerges. If I could get this version of me, the one who hasn’t seen herself yet, to never come back here. . . but how?

There is a pen in my pocket. I can write it on her hand.

Georgia Mary Park, I’m you from the future. Get rid of that watch. I know you will be late for work, and you will never save your parents. But it makes a paradox. There will always be 2 of us or more I don’t know depending on how many times we go back. I am scared. Get rid of it and never use it again.

My message ended up taking the whole of her hand and most of her arm. I thought it necessary to include my full name, because I’m not naturally a trusting person, and I needed her to trust me.

What do I do now? I guess the most logical thing is to hide someplace where no one will see me, and wait. If she never sets the time back, there should never be two of us. So I, the me that’s here right now, will just disappear?

I feel like I’m laying down my life. But it was never supposed to be like this. I have to remind myself that the person I’m looking at, the person I’ve just written on. . . is me.

I will still be alive.

I start walking. Once I’m all alone, I will push the crown back in. Time will resume. And the person I am right now should stop existing.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I jump back a little bit. Writing has just appeared on me. I was just walking, I looked down, and there is writing all up my arm. The weird thing is . . . it looks like my writing.

I can’t read all of it, because it’s partly hidden by the edge of my sleeve, so I check my surroundings to find a place to read it. I duck into a corner. So far, I don’t like what I’ve read. My name.

I pull up my sleeve, and read the rest in shock. I’m you from the future. Get rid of that watch. I know you will be late for work, and you will never save your parents. But it makes a paradox. There will always be 2 of us or more I don’t know depending on how many times we go back. I am scared. Get rid of it and never use it again.

It’s my own writing, I’m sure of it. And it sounds like me. And not many people know my middle name. Under any other circumstances I would think I was insane, and that I had wrote the message without knowing it.

I yank the pocket watch from my neck, breaking the fragil clasp. It is a shame. This golden treasure, with beautiful engravings around the edge, which keeps time perfectly, and much more than that; the thought of it going to waste is unfortunate. But the situation that will arise if I keep it sounds distressing to say the least.

In a fluid motion, I throw the watch to the ground, and stomp on it. I must look so strange to everyone passing by. Once the pocket watch is shattered, I scoop up the fragments, and throw them in the closest gutter like I had meant to this morning. I watch the rushing water carry the curse away.

A tear comes to my eye. For a brief moment, I had thought that maybe my parents weren’t dead to me. That the accident hadn’t really happened. That I would come swooping in like a hero to stop everything bad in the world.

I wipe the tear with the back of my hand, and pull my phone from my purse. 9:00. I am officially late to work.

Simple.

I'd go back

to that first night

when I though you were too good to be true

and you thought the same about me.

Back

to when I would spend an hour getting ready

and you would show up

an hour early.

Back

to when I would tell

anyone who would listen

all about you

and you would live up

to the advance press.

Back

to that first night

when we both felt

we had found it all.

~~

@triciamccallum

#redheadedpoet

www.triciamccallum.com

Have you forgotten

you have no need for these?

Forgotten they’re a blown candle

during the night.

Forgotten the chains that make up your bones

and bring you to your knees.

For respect,

I’ll remember to put stones in your grave:

Throw hard coal

to the ashes, dear slave.

And…

Have you forgotten

these have no use for you?

It’s true!

Don’t be selfish,

Give me your home,

Give me your glasses-

since you have no tome.

Give me your name,

the only thing the dead keep.

And last, please,

Give me your keys…

And…

Have you forgotten, that you’re no longer human.

Now, remember and reap,

and I’ll do the same,

when I open your door…

CHAPTER ONE

DIJAH

For the first time in her now-16 years, Khadijah Thompson's first thought upon awakening on her born day anniversary was not Happy Birthday to Me. Today, she greeted her slightly-older reflection with, "Tomorrow, I become a white woman". She didn't say it with either excitement or apprehension, but with more of a clinical detachment.

Taking in her dark chocolate skin, a color that Bruno's Chocolates would envy for sure, she spoke to her image. "Tomorrow, the surgery to make my skin white begins." She put her face right up to her reflection, dissecting every inch of herself, from hairline to chin. "Tomorrow, they'll take my wide nose and make it thinner." She sniffed. "I wonder if it'll hurt." Putting a hand to her mouth, she gently touched her plump, garnet-tinged lips with the tips of her fingers. "They'll make my lips thinner, too." She zoomed in on her eyes. "At least they’ll leave my eyes alone. I love their hazel color and long lashes."

Stepping slightly back, she raked a hand over her tight cornrows. "I wonder what they'll do with my hair. I hope it gets to keep its dark auburn color." Stepping further back still, she dropped her blue robe to the floor and took in her naked form. Cupping her breasts in her hands, she wondered, "Will these stay the same size?" Turning sideways, she looked at the buttocks that had been admired by so many boys in school. "And what about my BUTT? Will they take some of it away?!"

Looking at herself top to bottom, she wondered one final thing. "Will I still...be ME?"

She thought of everyone she knew and having to leave them for the next two years, the better to function as a Caucasian before deciding on her permanent "color". Her parents were proud that she'd volunteered for the experiment. It wasn't that they weren't proud of their heritage - in fact, they were very proud of it - but they also realized the need for man to see outside of their skin tones and if trying on another ethnicity was a step in that direction, they were all for it. But other people were a different story.

Her bestie, Shantilly, stood by her side, even if she didn't quite understand her decision at first. "But, WHY, Dijah?" she had asked. "I thought you were proud of being a strong sister!"

"I was...I am. And that's why I have to do this! I have to show that regardless of my color, I'm still me!"

Shantilly nodded, pursing her pink lips. "I hear you." She paused peeling her orange, her chewed nails making the job that much more difficult. "If I wasn't ultra-light already, I might just try it, too."

Loquacia, on the other hand, had shown her true colors. "I knew it. I am SO not surprised. I always knew you wanted to be a white girl and now you get to be one." She pointed her purple lollipop in Dijah's direction. "Watch. Your two years of 'trying it' - and HOW does one even 'try on' another color, anyhow? - will end up with you staying white! You ain't no real sister." She planted a caramel hand on her jean-clad hip and tapped her purple nails on her upper thigh.

"Yes, I am, Quacia. And that's why I have to do this! I have to show that I'm more than just a skin color! Why can't you see that?"

"Girl, please. You don't have to turn into some whitie bread to do that."

Before Dijah could say more, her so-called friend was gone, strutting across the cafeteria to go sit with a couple of other girls. Malycia, Tyrineice, and Nina had all turned their backs on her, too. Only Tilly and her sister, Vette, stuck by her.

She sighed. Better to know now who was really in her camp than to be disappointed later. She pursed her lips at herself. I really hope they leave my lips alone, though.

ANDREW

One week after going through the surgery, Andre - formerly known as Andrew Maxmillion Rutherford IV - opened his eyes and again saw nothing but white. White walls, white tables, even the talkie box had a white frame. Everything was white. Laughable, since today was the day the bandages would come off and he'd see his new, black, face.

He didn't feel any different. But then, had he really expected to? Had he really thought he'd go from stuffy, preppy, white-bread Andrew to cool homie, Andre, in a flash? If he was being honest with himself, he kind of thought he would. Besides wanting to take a stand against racism, he also wanted to see what it would be like to be a cool brother...But wasn't that, in itself, racist? Wasn't that thought right there thinking in terms of stereotypes? Who said only 'brothas' could dance, jump high, and spit lines like a mutha' (Eminem being the exception, of course)?

His father and friends sure didn't think highly of his decision. His father just about hit the ceiling when he told him what he'd signed up for.

"No son of mine is going to walk around in a black boy's body!"

"Father, it's only for two ye-"

"I wouldn't give a shit if it was for two minutes!" Andrew III ran a hand through his short dark blonde hair before pointing a finger at his son. "Tell them you changed your mind!"

Andrew stood his ground. "I won't, father. You'll see. This IS a good thing! And I thought you always taught me that all men are created equal."

His father curled his bottom lip before stabbing his half-chomped cigar into an empty yellow saucer on the counter. "They are. Some are just more equal. We are more equal. We come from a long line of Rutherfords and I won't have you sullying our name like this!"

Andrew looked at the veins popping from his father's forehead and straining to escape his neck. Even at such a tense moment, he had to keep from laughing, as his father looked just like one of those cartoons, turning red with indignation.

"Then you'll he happy to know, father, that as part of the program, I'll be moving across the country for the two-year duration. That way, I can fully immerse myself into my new...uh-" The look on his father's face stopped him mid-sentence.

The two men stared at each other for a moment, then Andrew cleared his throat. "Meanwhile, I'll go stay with Aunt Heather. She understands!"

And that was the last he'd talked to his father. Sadly, his best friends were no better.

Thomas J. Richener III and Harold P. Quinton, Jr. looked at him like he'd fallen off the oft-mentioned turnip truck.

"You're going to do WHAT?!" they'd said in unison. They could never agree on anything. Leave this to be the one thing where they'd come together.

"Oh, c'mon, you guys. We have black friends, for crying out loud!"

"True," Thomas said, straightening out his yellow sweater vest. "But having black friends and becoming black are two completely separate things."

Harold nodded, a lock of red hair falling into his dark brown eyes. "I like them well enough, but Andrew...this is really pushing it, man."

"I can not believe what I'm hearing! Haven't we always stood up for others, even when we ended up bullied ourselves? How many rallies have we gone to? How many petitions for change have we signed?"

"That's all well and good, A, but why do you have to become one of them?"

"To prove that I can have any face at all, be it white, black, yellow, purple, or green, and still be me because it's what's on the inside that counts."

That was two months ago. His friends hadn't brought it up again and neither had he, but after that, there was always a bit of tension in the air when they got together. Then, at his born day anniversary celebration last week, Harold had told him he still didn't agree, but maybe he could try some black pussy and let them know how it was.

Andrew shook his head at the memory. He loved his friends dearly, but now he could see what douches they could be.

Turning his head, he looked at the night stand and saw the picture of his former face smiling from the little 5x7 frame his nurse had placed there. He wasn't a bad-looking guy at all. Dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, dimples, just the kind of all-American white face America loved, while giving lip service to the idea of a "great melting pot". He'd exchanged the slick blonde hair for coarse black hair, the blue eyes for brown ones, and his trim nose for a slightly wider one.

Then a new thought occurred to him...Hmmm. I wonder if my schlong is bigger now.

This morning I woke for work

And missed you.

You were sprawled out next to me

Breathing deep, creased sheets

The city still asleep, quiet streets, 

Too dark to see

So I closed my eyes again...

And the rest of my life came to me in sheets

I flipped through days and nights and dreams

Until there was nothing

And then there was--

Nothing?

Except memory, lingering.

The smell of strong coffee, your fingers tracing me

A million different smiles, Sunday drives, mac and cheese,

sunny strolls, guitar strums, whispers, screams,

smoke breaks, sobs, hospital hallways

Draining from me.

I’m up again. You lie still. Here.

I shouldn’t dwell on such things-- 

And yet they like to dwell on me, at night they build their nest

And multiply and scream and weigh down my chest

I can’t breathe. I can’t

Breathe.

Don’t, don’t leave.

Life goes on, they all say, as though that helps.

That just means

There's so much you won't get to see.

What I wouldn’t give for our bodies to be wheels

That keep turning, gears grinding together and moved

By the Earth beneath our feet, connecting, spinning--

Stirring.

I feel the stunning loss already, the arms of sunlight

Dragging me into the day

And holding me.

I still remember the bright, light blue letters plastered on that old orange juice advertisement: “A day without orange juice is a day without sunshine." I guess that’s why losing my father will always remind me of citrus. He made me fresh orange juice in the morning before taking us all to church every Sunday. Thinking of him tastes like lemon zest that tightens your jaw and makes your teeth cramp. He helped me plant orange-lemon hybrids in our backyard. The first time we tasted one, I cringed. He will always feel like the rinds peeled off of me that left white residue and dried tang on your fingertips. To me, his death is that familiar sticky coating that lingers on your fingers even after you wash your hands. After digging your nails into the bright orange rinds and causing a little juice to spray out, it leaves a thin layer that makes my peeled body seem slightly more protected from the outside world. It separates me and brings me comfort.

I still wear my father’s old jackets even though I know it will sting being covered in his old lining. My mother said it was gross of me to keep some of his clothing, like it was the skin shed from a snake: lived-in. But I like zipping up a layer of him and feeling myself settle into a person who had experienced more life than I. It makes me feel like I can just absorb some of his knowledge; some of him. Maybe he can still help his little girl learn to take on the world, like he used to. Maybe I just want to feel something. Even if it’s pain.

The day he died, my mother was sitting on my bed at 7:35 in the morning. We were going to Disneyland to celebrate my little brother’s birthday a week early and my mother’s birthday a day early. My brother, Aron, was turning nine. She received a call from the hospital he had been in for the past year and half; we thought that maybe he felt a bit better and it would be him on the other end of the phone. My mother and I were victims of hope. Hope is my least favorite word and I am totally its bitch. It makes sure that you will never accept your reality like a knife capable of slicing skin and making juice trickle out. I felt like a tangerine, subjected to the thin blade of longing and dribbling out at the seams.

My mom put the phone call on speaker as the man on the other end relayed to us that this morning my father’s lungs had finally forgotten how to breathe and that his heart had learned to stop beating. That man introduced me to loss: a loss of a past filled with rides at Disneyland and churros on Sunday. And a loss of watching the special tree grow in the front yard and plucking off the ripe oranges. I learned two things that day:

1. Birth smells of citrus spraying out of the freshly peeled orange whose rinds are still pushed underneath your nail beds. An unparalleled attachment between me and my mother was born that day.

2. Death is when you squeeze the pith out. My father died.

The only good thing about knowing you have ALS is that you know that it will kill you. What you must learn is that it will also kill you slowly. I guess I was relieved that he no longer had to struggle to breathe. I found comfort in knowing that his muscles were no longer furiously disobeying him and bruising him from the inside out. It was August 7th, the day before my mother’s birthday. I skipped breakfast that day.

I rode in the passenger seat of the car with red heart-shaped sunglasses covering my damp eyes. On my phone, I searched “amyotrophic laterals sclerosis, death.” The ALS association website was the first to pop up. The link was already purple from me clicking on it so many times before; I had poked at it so often that the website developed the texture of an overly ripe Valencia orange that fell heavily off of the tree with a thump and gushed out just a little bit. My father did the same thing until his plump body flattened on the dirt soil and all his juice drained out, slowly.

This website explains that ALS is a neurodegenerative disease that literally translates to “No muscle nourishment.” Without nourishment, the muscles degenerate, which leads to the loss of voluntary actions. Voluntary actions include: putting his arms around me, posing for a family photo, and making us breakfast in the morning. It meant he could no longer go to Disneyland with us, sit in the white boats of “It’s a Small World,” and sing that incessant tune over and over again until it grinded my nerves. Who knew that I would ever miss that.

“Don’t let your brother know yet, I don’t wan to ruin his birthday.” Ok mom, I won’t.

We both wore sunglasses while she drove in silence. Today was a celebration.

Nothing reminds me more of my father than Disneyland. He loved that place so much none of my older siblings can even stand to hear the theme song anymore. It still held wonder for my younger brother and I, though. We used to go almost once a month and my father always made us all go on “It’s a Small World” at some point in the day. I always dreaded that. I wanted to go on all the fun and exciting rides, like “Thunder Mountain” or “Indiana Jones,” and I hoped that he forgot or might let us skip it. But he insisted that it was one of the most beautiful creations in this “small world,” apparently there was “an inexplicable presence there.” I always thought the secret “presence” was long, drawn out boredom and I would try to put it off till late in the night so I could nap on my father’s cushiony bicep. Only I ever saw him cry a little underneath the Mexican dancers when the tune started being sung in Spanish. I don’t think he ever suspected that I opened my eyes and saw him weep for his home country and his own deceased father. I kept it my little secret.

On the day he died I rode it twice. My unknowing brother complained while Mom and I cried. Now every time I sit in those white little boats and go through the castle to the unchanging tune of “It’s a Small World,” I can’t help but feel the presence of my father as if I’m 8 years old and he’s buying me pink cotton candy. I feel him put his arm around me and call me his little princess again. The time passes so slowly, and I love it.

It makes me want orange juice for breakfast again.

“How many times will you-” His words were cut off.

The clocks froze, then rewound.

“However many times it takes.”

Again, her infinity blade descended.