Home: A Film Spooling Unattended

Framed photos and heirlooms fill a series of bookcases, which, against the walls of George’s studio, resemble a city skyline. On each shelf, mementos glow, exuding pale browns and yellows. They soften his soul after a day under his office’s fluorescent lights.

Whenever he enters his studio, he looks at one shelf of items. Today, he focuses on photos of his family during Easter, Halloween, each holiday of 2100. His mind picks up memories. That was the first year he cut the turkey at Thanksgiving. He can almost feel his father’s cotton apron cradling the back of his head. His father’s hands were so large; they covered his shaking hands, steadying them.

It stays, he decides. Each day, after viewing a random shelf, he considers whether to replace the display with another collection from one of the apple crates peppered across the rug, brimming with photo albums of his family and leather-bound notebooks, like his grandfather’s war journal and aunt’s childhood diary.

It was a collection he started gathering last year from his family’s storage and cousins’ garage sales when BetterState announced their goal for time travel. They said the first trip would be in a year, and within ten years, everyone would have their own personal time machine.

Excitement budded in his chest when he heard the news. His first thought was of his parents. They had both died the year before the announcement. His mother in May and his father in August. He could see them again. Possibly change something to help them live another year, another two. He thought of the new memories that could be made if they reached 90. A Christmas in Hawaii for a change. Why not 100? How many more dinners, movies, hugs could he remember then?

He dreamt of his parents that night and woke up realizing it wasn’t worth the risk. How could he ignore that time travel could change his parents entirely? It was unacceptable. No, he would never do it. But what about everyone else? What if someone changed one thing that rewrote his family? He didn’t know what to do. He knew BetterState would continue, so his family would always be at risk. All he could do was hold them close, remember them. Maybe if he remembered hard enough, nothing would change.

So today, after looking over a random shelf to reinforce his memories, he wants everything to stay in place. The current display is rich with possible memories.

This decision is usually followed by three more mental exercises to reinforce what he can remember about his family. He first takes in the third shelf of the fourth case. It holds his parents’ wedding photos. Seeing their smiling faces so close to each other always recalls a warm memory.

Some days, it’s a memory he’s already had. Sometimes, it’s new. Today, his mind is caught in his mother’s smile. That exact smile had been inches from his face many times when he was young. He can picture his mother’s soft brown hair bounce and settle, curling at the bottom of her ears as she kneels down to look into his eyes. Her light brown eyes brighten to gold in the light. He knows her smile can’t be the only thing he remembers. It has to be tied to something. A birthday? Summer vacation? Nothing comes to him. He only sees her bright smile as his eyes shut, hoping to conjure a full scene. Nothing.

George runs his hands through his hair. He forgoes feeling the weight of the notebooks and jewelry he’s gathered on the chest near his bed. He wants to get to the home movies, the third and final exercise. He wants to find his mother’s smile, see the moment that brought her so close to him.

“Play childhood memories in 2100,” he says, sitting on the edge of his bed.

The wall opposite his bed blacks out before a home movie begins to play above the bookcases. The footage is clear. George can make out the blades of grass in his backyard and the beads of water flying from the sprinklers. To him, it can’t be altered. Can’t fade.

He watches himself at age 10 run past sprinklers with the family’s golden retriever, Sydney. Laughter spills from his mouth as his golden jumps beside him and twirls. Her tail trails just out of his little hands’ reach. His mom comes from the right of the screen with an ice cream cone and kneels beside him. She kisses his forehead and then smiles, beaming, mussing his hair before petting Sydney. She gives him the cone and nods from the ice cream to Sydney.

Relief floods him. He can’t believe he got it on his first try. There she is smiling. He replays the scene, watching how his mother’s feet glide in leather slip-ons and how her arms move beside her. Every movement is precious.

The film is disrupted by a flashing “Breaking News” followed by a reporter outside a building where people have gathered with signs bouncing on their shoulders.

The reporter’s voice is clear even as her mic picks up the protestors: “As of 8 o’clock, BetterState has initiated the world’s first attempt at time travel. Protestors have gathered, concerned about the consequences, while supporters await news about the mission’s success.”

“Systems off!” George’s room darkens. He fishes out his emergency flashlight, finds his father’s high school yearbook, and sits down with it. He won’t lose them. He won’t. He won’t.

He wakes up with the yearbook on his chest. His watch says 2 a.m. He imagines it’s safe. Nothing would be broadcasting at this hour.

“Systems on.” The room brightens, and George lets out a breath after his eyes dart from photo to photo without seeing any differences. His parents are still his parents. “Play childhood memories in 2100.”

He smiles as he watches himself run through sprinklers with his yellow lab, Cyd. It’s all there.