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Every time machine is a one-of-a-kind device, and building one requires perseverance,
ingenuity, and total concentration. You will also need a clean workspace, a flat surface,
and the usual assortment of tools. Some of the parts and materials described in these
instructions may not be available, in which case you will have to improvise suitable
replacements.
Start with sunlight's reflection off the water on the afternoon your grandfather took you
out on the lake in a rowboat, the last time you saw him alive. Stabilize it with the bobbing
of the ducks on the boat's wake, the breeze caressing your arms and neck, causing goose
bumps, and the insistent tug of the oars in your hands when he let you row.
Attach your little sister's tears after you plucked out the eyes of her favorite plush teddy
bear and hid them under her pillow for her to find in the morning. They should fit loosely, leaving room for the ringing of your mother's
screams in your ears as well as the dampness of the soil on your hands when you buried
your favorite toy soldier's splintered remains after your sister smashed it in parent-
sanctioned retribution.
Gently screw into place the trembling of your first lover's lips as they formed a smile
when you told her that you loved only her and would forever; fasten onto it the set of her
jaw when you said you'd become involved with someone else. You may need to lubricate
the joint with the lies you told her in the final weeks of your relationship, each
encompassing the last, like Russian nesting dolls, mixed in equal parts with her blind
desperation to believe you.
Be very careful as you slip into the resulting groove the smell of the wilted get-well
flowers you found on your doorstep upon returning from the ski trip with your friends
after you'd told your parents you were too sick to come home for Thanksgiving. Softly
tap in your mother's worried, desperate pleas in the half-dozen messages she'd left on
your answering machine, and connect them with the disappointment that quickly replaced
anger on your father's face when you told him the truth.
Hook up the cold slickness of sweat in your palms as you signed the papers finalizing
your promotion to manager. Plug in the warmth your wife's cheek against yours when
you embraced before you got into the corporate car to go to the airport for your first
extended business trip, and bind it in place with the smell of her hair and the pressure of
her fingers against your back.
Affix the constriction in your chest linked with the wobbliness in your knees as you stood
on the boardwalk and watched your then-best friend walk away after you told him it was
nothing personal but you wouldn't be comfortable lending him money. The golden-pink
of the sunset should slide smoothly into the smell of the ocean, the feel of salt coating
your skin, and the grainy roughness of the wooden guardrail in your grip.
Install the numbness, spreading from your fingertips to your hand and up your arm, after
you hit your wife on the side of her head when, during an argument that started over
nothing and touched on everything, she called you a series of names no wife should call
her husband. Fill in any gaps with the sound of her shocked gasp and the heartbreaking
silence that followed.
Snap in the sound of the door slamming when your son stormed out of your house after
you explained to him, in increasingly forceful terms, the reasons that you'd be more than
happy to help pay for law school but wouldn't give a penny for a creative writing
program. Latch onto it the flash of defiance in his eyes, the knot in the pit of your
stomach, and the scent of daffodils that drifted in from your front yard through the open
door.
Surmount the whole thing with the tightness in the corners of your mother's mouth when
you told her you would not be able to take care of her the way she needed if she came to
live with you. Prop it in place with the trembling of her hands in yours, and the musty,
medicinal smell of her apartment, which coated the inside of your nostrils, dried out your
throat, and stung your eyes.
If you've followed these instructions, and you're very lucky, you should have in your
possession your very own, fully functioning, custom-made time machine, ready to take
you to the moment of your choice in the blink of an eye.
If you're even luckier, you will leave it in the corner of the garage, next to the old
lawnmower you've never gotten around to fixing, under a worn tarp, collecting dust.
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