The Pendulum Swings On and On

I stand on gray museum marble, watching the pendulum’s parachronistic swing.

A strange desire fills me. I dismiss it as madness.

Sensing movement, I turn. A familiar gaze, like looking at an old mirror, cracked and gray, meets mine. "I’ll see you in twenty years," he says.

He jumps, gracefully arcing, mounting the oscillating arm like a fireman's pole. Our mental connection surprises me, then he winks and I understand.

My vardoger fades out of existence.

I replay the scene in my mind over and over, so that when the time comes, I’ll be able to execute it perfectly again.