Time Travel: Spring Forward

Journal Entry: Saturday, March 12, 2011

As the sun begins to set on the horizon of the cool beach – the immaculate colors of peach, red, and orange fading into a dark violet skyline and blinding white ocean waves – the phone buzzes loudly.

Ring! I hear my ringtone, an excerpt of a sermon, “aaaalllways being with our God! Having joy... that will not stop!”

I silence the phone, noticing the caller id: “Tirrell Hobson.”

“I'm on vacation…shoot. No calls,” I mutter.

1 missed call.

Time: 6:45pm

I lay alone on the beach enjoying my time off. The temperature drops as the night continues to draw near. An unknown phone number calls my cell. I refuse the call. After I walk back to the beach house, I watch the news, which informs me that tonight the time will change.

“Spring forward. One less hour to sleep,” I say to myself.

I pull out my phone and see the date. March 12, 2011. Tomorrow is Saturday, the anniversary. The unknown number texts me:

REF # 123157

TURN BACK A MOMENT

TAKE A SECOND CHANCE

TURN BACK A MOMENT

TO DO MORE THAN JUST A GLANCE

TURN BACK A MOMENT

TAKE A SECOND GLANCE

TURN BACK THE TIME

AT THE STRIKE OF 3:13AM IS YOUR CHANCE

As I read the message out loud, I think about him. But if I could go back, where would I go, when would I be?

I fall asleep thinking about what I would do. I want to see him again. So I close my heavy burning eyelids to quench the thirst of my fatigue. But what feels like seconds later is really hours.

Clang!

Time: 3:13am

But it is an alarm clock. Not a cell phone. I am in a bunk bed in a green, dirty room. I look around for my cell phone, but I don’t see it. And I'm at home – not the beach house. How did I get home so fast? I walk into the bathroom, eyes still closed with sleep, glasses off.

The bathroom looks different. In fact, I feel different. As I wash my hands, I run the warm water from my hands onto my face, wiping my eyes open. I slowly look up into the mirror and notice. My hair is gone - just a little afro! Oh no! Okay, my face. No zits (that's good). But not one strand of facial hair. I look like I’m 12! I begin to freak out.

“Oh no! Oh no! Someone shaved all of my hair off.” I look down and say, “All of my hair!” Oh boy.

As I pace back and forth in the bathroom, I remember... the text message! This is a chance. Turn back the time. What year is this? What day is it? Hmm. I have a digital watch. I click it and it shows 3-13 – but what year? I walk out the bathroom and see into the room to the right. Siobhan, awake as usual. And Malique, my nephew, is a baby – not even a year yet. If he was born in November of 1998, that means he is only a few months – and if it’s March, then it’s probably 1999. It's March 13, 1999. I glance at my watch. Saturday morning. Wow!

I don't know how long I can stay in this day, so I begin to look at my uninked comics, my first incomplete journal, and my messy room. I am eagerly waiting. My impatience gets the best of me. I walk over to Mom and Dad's room. The door is cracked open. Dad is awake, completing his home peritoneal dialysis treatment.

“Jason? What are you doing up this late... or early?” Dad asks.

I am stunned. Dad looks good. Not a lot of gray hair. He knows it’s me. Not blind. I just want to hug him and kiss him. It is him! My dad alive and well! So much I want to say! So much I want to do! But I am silent. Stunned.

“Jason... what's up?” Dad says. “Is everything all right?” So much I want to ask him as an adult.

“Nothing... everything is f-f-ine,” I stutter out. “I miss you, Dad.”

Dad chuckles, “Tsss – he-he. Awww, son, that's sweet. You know I love you, right?”

I slowly nod my head. Of course I know. You say it all the time.

“Well, don't wake up your mom.”

“Oh,” I whisper. “Well, I know it's late, but I just want to talk to you, Dad.”

“Okey doke. But let's talk in the morning,” he says back in a whisper.

“Oh okay. Yeah... I'll see you in the morning.” This is the anniversary. But in only 4 years (3-13-03) you will be d-d-dead. But what will I say knowing that? What will I do differently?

“Jason... I'm proud of you!” Those words from my father sends chills down my spine and tears down my face.

“I love you, Dad,” I say as I walk out of the room. What would I do? What would I say? I would do the same thing, I think as I close my eyes and wake up. Back to 2011 – March 13. Sunday morning. I spent that hour in the past. Now it's gone forever. But never forgotten.

The End.