Jeffrey Skinner
Many Worlds
A physicist proposes time does not exist, only an infinite number of dramas, grand or
banal, in different locations: a Wyoming ant hefts a leaf and begins the blind trek home.
Nancy nicks her thumb chopping arugula in Manhattan. Sheets of rain batter the empty head
of a seagull hunkered down amid blonde grasses. A Sudanese teenager takes the first of
nineteen steps toward a landmine he will, or will not, trip with his left foot. A star in
a tri-folded galaxy sputters and implodes. And so forth, ad infinitum. I read about this
while drinking a steaming hot Columbian blend on the day we call, for convenience sake,
Sunday.
But if there is no time, I wonder as I take another sip, why do I keep needing stronger
glasses? And, if time is to be summarily tossed onto some landfill, wouldn’t we be
wise to hire a caretaker, an experienced force to guard the perimeter? One would not want
the Spanish Inquisition leaking into Stonington, for example, where I currently reside.
And I do not like to imagine walking the frozen streets of Buffalo, New York, and bumping
into myself at the age of two, bundled in my mother’s arms as she hurries me into the
hospital, my appendix burst, my time running out.
How immediately I bend the poor physicist’s notion to my own fears and wishes . . .
Why must I understand every idea in terms of myself, my own little life and death? In all
probability I misunderstand him completely and do not, as usual, know what I’m
talking about. I wish I could step outside, into one of the many worlds to the left
and right of me. The boy recovered, in time, and lived. But if time does not exist
then why, as I continue sipping, does my sorrow deepen?