The Time Machine

I have developed, or discovered a time machine. I know what you are saying. "But Joel, you are a woodworker, how could you know anything about a time machine." No one is as surprised as me. I have come to believe that time is more illusion, a construct developed by man to describe what he experiences. Quantum mechanics aside, the time machine exists and I know where it is.

The most unusual physical characteristic is that it looks remarkably like the blue  "Big Man's" lounge chair which happens to be located in my living room. It's true. Every time I sit in it I go somewhere that most definitely is not now. When I close my eyes just a little I see my kids, now with children of their own, running around the house, coming precariously close to the wall unit corners, laughing and playing. I see a little red haired girl helping a tall, skinny red head man planting a Christmas tree in the yard. They look familiar. I see a an almost teenage girl playing what appears to be her first basketball game, committing her first foul about seventeen seconds into the first quarter. A boy jumps into his dad's arms and sits on his shoulders, almost falling, but not really minding.

If I squeeze my eyes a little tighter, I see a somewhat gangly, mop headed teenager walking through the halls of a high school with a equally gangly and attractive young lady stealing a PDA, that's a public display of affection. In another instant, she is walking down the aisle to meet a young man who has no idea about the ride whose ticket he is punching. 

Everything becomes a whirlwind. A little read haired boy asks for some cookies, Archway Oatmeal Raisin, and a gray haired "Grandma" complies. Great Grandma actually. My real Grandma became "Itsy" by some twisted reference to a Howdy Doody routine. Cornfields and thunderstorms on a hot summer day roll towards the front porch of the farmhouse and that sweet smell of life overwhelms the senses of of a kid who has only the cares of youth, which mostly means knowing when to come in out of the rain.

Eventually, my eyes open. Looking down I find a granddaughter in my arms, her hand grasping my finger, which is strangely wrinkled, not like I remember. She smiles and slowly goes to sleep. As I rock her gently, the future envelops me. A young woman, escorted by a man who looks a little like me, walks down the aisle. They pass a man who looks familiar, grey hair, and happy to have made it to that day.  A smile crosses his face as he remembers, reaches the lever, puts down the footrest and carries his granddaughter to bed.