Tuesday, October 2, 2018

Time Bomb

Some weapons are meant to wound, not kill. Kill a man and the enemy force is reduced by one; wound a man, and it is reduced by three--the wounded, and two more to carry them to safety. A dead man urges one to revenge, a wounded man cries out to retreat.

Among these weapons, the chrono-bomb is one of the more insidious.

The 25-year bomb went off in the Tokyo Olympic stadium in 2020 for me, in 1995 for my wife. An invisible event horizon swept through the crowd, an ever-expanding shell of lost time that annihilated today, and yesterday, yesterday's yesterday and nearly 10,000 yesterdays before that. 

The boys and I were outside, and escaped. My wife was inside.  

She died. She died and was replaced by this 20-year-old stranger, this younger version of herself who'd never met this overweight, middle-aged man, nor his two teenage sons. This younger version who came staggering, bewildered from the stadium, went stumbling straight past her family. 

In this way, the victims of the chrono-bomb are not those it affects, but those it doesn't. Our family is reduced to three, with nobody to avenge, crying out to wind back time.

 

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