The greatest tragedy in life is that the circumstances we’re born into are not of our choosing. We live on rails, crafted by the universe, that drag us along from conception to decay, giving us the illusion of free will and that our choices are truly our own. We are a tool our brains use to interact with the stimuli around them, and even they can grow faulty with age. The worst aspect of this horror is that once one becomes aware of it, the weight becomes that much more crushing.
I remember the last time you visited my home. Your face was so full of life and your smile brightened my day. We sipped tea on the porch, basked in the warm August sun, and you told me that I was to become a grandfather. I had only cried tears of joy twice prior to that day, and the news made me realize that I, despite all hardships, lived a full life. I reached the end and I got to witness new beginnings. Your final words have stuck with me since that moment.
“Thank you. For everything.”
That’s all that fluttered in my mind since that day. The joy you gave me burned so immensely, but as I held your hand on that hospital bed, not even 9 months later, that joy faded with you.
I know life isn’t fair. I’m not disillusioned enough to think there is some ordained purpose to all of the universe’s actions, but there isn’t a more proper description for what happened than you leaving was unfair. No child is supposed to pass before their parents, especially in a moment such as that which is claimed to be one most cherished. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. Childbirth is a curse that produces us into conscious torture. Either it is long after the act or during, it always breeds suffering.
Similar revelations came to me when your mother passed. Her own cells chose to devour the world that allowed them to exist, but you had my side when she closed her eyes for the last time. I wanted so deeply to let go, but your grip kept me from falling. I’ve cried tears of joy three times in life so far, but they’re drowning in a vast ocean of sorrow. It’s getting harder to breathe everyday.
Distractions keep your final words that day at bay. The occasional novel transports me to worlds crafted with meaning. That is when I’m not immersing myself into my studies, unraveling the building blocks on this infinite play we’re acting in before an empty audience. In my old age, my colleagues have begged me to retire. Rest and cherish what years I have left.
How can I, without you by my side? How am I supposed to cherish the time I have when yours was cut short?
I wish you could answer me. I desperately need your wisdom. You had such an appreciation for living. I envied it. I hope you still did in your final breaths. The thought, otherwise, chokes me. My body and mind froze as I held your limping hand. The orderlies dragged me away before I could see for myself. I ask myself if there was anything I could have done to save you, rip out the parasite before it took you from me. But all logic here leads to the same conclusion.
You’re gone.
My theoretical physics studies have always been this fantastical realm to you ever since you were a child. You’d ask what all of it means and I was so socially inept that I struggled where to start in explaining it to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t explain it better to you, invite you into my world with more welcoming arms, but I suppose you found your own way in time. One topic of study that has been on my mind for the past few years has been the suggestion that every quantum outcome exists somewhere, outside of our perception. Colleagues at Brinebank University have spotted an anomaly, at the farthest reaches of our observable universe, that may give a window to such inviting speculation. Reason told me not to bother, but that voice was no louder than a distant whisper.
Bureaucrats and Republican politicians defunded the school in its astronomy and higher physicist research, and the dean locked away our equipment in the lowest basement just to collect dust. It was a crime for it to be wasting away in the dark and there simply wasn’t enough time to wait four years for a trivial chance at being allowed to use them. So, with patient weeks, I borrowed what I could and made do. It was a struggle carrying everything, loading them into my truck, but I think you’d be proud of what your old pop accomplished with such an aching body.
Blood, sweat, and tears went into the creation of the gateway in our home. You’d marvel at the sheer beauty of its makeshift form. With power drained from the state’s Dam generators, it showed me its light. A soothing glow, ever shifting in magenta colors of the cosmos beyond our own. I glimpsed into its spiraling beauty and I cried tears of joy once more.
I saw you and I sitting on our porch under the warm sun, just as you delivered the news. You looked over your shoulder and I swear you saw me too. I called your name, but you just gazed at me, not responding.
I then overheard one side of a conversation that version of you wasn’t a part of. You, in that sweet child’s voice you had, asked, “If there are really infinite mes then are those other mes really me?”
There’s a door before me in our home, showing me worlds slightly different than the one that stole you away. They cannot hear me as I beg for you to talk to me once more. Its glow births new shadows through these halls. My mind fills with thoughts that are mine but aren’t. I remember holding your hand on that hospital bed. Your eyes flood with tears of joy as your baby, my grandbaby, cries. They’re gifted to you and you cradle it just as your mother cradled you. Mom is there too, holding you close and kissing your forehead. I reach out to keep you here, and then the memory bleeds to now.
Memories that are not my own grace me when the gateway is simply being open. There’s a reality out there where you aren’t a senseless victim to life’s cruelty, and I see you turn into the person you’ve always dreamed of becoming. If I can remember thoughts that I didn’t experience then that gives evidence that perhaps I can find you once again, and cherish that life we were supposed to have.
I know you won’t be able to read this letter, but my hope is that the memory of it comes to you in time. I write this letter to let you know what I’ve done and why, assuming something were to go wrong. I’ve brainstormed and worked out every possibility and all logic leads to I don’t know what’ll happen. I don’t know. I wish I knew what would happen when I take that first step through the blurring of realities, but it’s impossible to measure infinity without getting lost in its violent currents. Every outcome I find you, it is surrounded by ones you never existed.
A thought- a voice beckons me.
Life is a hell I’m aware of. It isn’t fair to still be here when you’re gone. I know you’re out there beyond the void and I’ve seen your face, smiling. I’m coming to meet you again, and when I do, I’ll hug you close and never let go.
I love you, Nadia.
Until we meet again,
Your old pop.