Turn, turn, turn

She appeared out of nowhere, saying nothing at first, but then made gestures for me to come closer. I wasn’t afraid, although perhaps I should have been. She didn’t resemble anyone I’d ever seen before, however, so it was hard to tell if she was a fairy godmother (a character only for children), a genie, a leprechaun (highly unlikely because I’m not Irish, plus I don’t believe in them), or a moura. A moura is a being from Galician mythology and might very well exist, so I think the figure that stood before me is likely to be a moura, whose identity is difficult to define, but she seems to seduce as well as offer things of value to those who chance upon her.

While I’m not sure who the unfamiliar figure was, I tend to think she was the last of the ones I’ve just mentioned, and thus could be related to the xanas or the banshees. Perhaps these ruminations matter little, other than to help explain why I had no idea what to do when she appeared. And I realize I’ve identified her as female although I’m not sure why now, since no real features remain in my memory. Impossible this is due to her shapeshifter characteristic, which makes her blurry when I try to recall our meeting late one night.

She held out some pages, loose yet still apparently taken from a book, a very old book. The book that many of us know and read over and over, hoping for a happy ending. The pages had writing on them and weren’t hard to decipher. There were three parts, forming a list of sorts. A list of choices, I was given to understand. It was also indicated, through gentle, rhythmic gestures, that only one could be chosen. One of the options. The one I wanted most.

This was reminiscent of fairy tales or other stories known to children around the world. Yet I wasn’t a child and hadn’t read or heard those tales in years. At least this wasn’t a case of the Lady or the Tiger. I just had to make a choice. The right one, of course. Here are the possibilities I was offered:

1. Wealth. Ie, all the money I could ever want. Money would definitely solve some - all? - of my problems, but was it what mattered the most, was it what I most needed?

2. Fame. Some people crave it. Often fame comes with fortune, but this offer was strictly limited to being known and respected in one’s field. In my case, it was extremely tempting, because fame is hard to come by. I’m an archaeologist, and digging in, sifting through, dry dirt doesn’t bring accolades to many. If I were Patricia Cornwell’s Scarpetta, it might be different. No, I’m just a dedicated, qualified student of old stones like dolmens and barrows. Being well-known is a nice idea, but it isn’t essential to my happiness.

3. The ability to turn back time. This I’d thought of many times, craved the ability to return to a point in the past, even.

Why did I want to do this so much, I wondered, even as I made my selection, leaving fortune and fame for someone else. It was not a desire to be younger, but it did seem appealing to be more conscious of everything around me, of what everyone was trying to tell me. As a girl, I’d never been good at understanding the world around me, had often felt lost or been troubled by it. If I could take with me the things learned over the years, but be younger and with a long future ahead, that would be pretty awesome, right?

That was the problem: you’re given this great opportunity, this second chance, but it comes with no instructions, no warnings. No label at all, except for TBT, a reminder that you’ve chosen ‘turn back time’ as the best gift. You have been given the gift, but have no help in using it. 

This is when I - too late - recalled the oft-expressed advice that we need to beware of Greeks bearing gifts (aka the Trojan horse). Or the adage that cautions us against excessive frugality: “you get what you pay for.” Of course I hadn’t invited the mysterious figure to appear and certainly hadn’t paid her to present herself. 

Still, there I was, standing with an old orphaned book page that had ‘turn back time’ juxtaposed with the original images, too indistinct to identify. I tried to put some order in the chaos of my :

How far back should I turn the time dial? Should I go back to my college years or to age two? 

How precise did the time need to be for it to work? Was it sufficient to choose a year or my age? Summer or winter? Which was better and why? Morning or night? Which did I prefer? What about unending summer afternoons riding my bike with my best friend on roads outside of town? Weren’t those moments simply perfect? There was no need for turning back time then, but also there was no need for future. All that mattered was in that warm light, moving along rural roads, friendship. The present.

How long would that time I had chosen to turn back to last? Was it a starting point for running the reel again? Or was it a few minutes, just once, to revisit a place or person? Yes, I would give a fortune to go back in time and talk to my father again, ask him all the questions I should have, or to pay more attention to the wisdom, the fortitude that was right in my selfish teenage face. A whole fortune, but if the talking had a limit of one minute or even an hour, stopping our voices again forever would be too painful. (The previous mourning only began to lessen after five years.)

Definitely I needed to know more. One other question I had was if the point in time chosen were the moment a bad decision had been made (for example), and thus would turning back allow me to not make the poor decisions? To not move to a place I loved on account of a high-paying job in a different place? (For example) In other words, how could I be sure I’d get the right point in time and, after that, could I be sure I would get to act within that point?

What was too far back? What was not far back enough? At each point in time, how many things could I improve, eliminate, alter? Are there any rules to this game?

Still and all, I had to see what I’d do if I could turn back time. I would select the most important moments to revisit. The problem is, I don’t want to tell you all of them. Some only I remember and they’re staying that way. Just know some are good and others are much less so. Just know they are - were - important for reasons no less than profound. Yes, I’ll keep the list to myself.

I apologize, because I was planning on presenting you with a list, not too long, of the major moments and why I still remember or cherish them. TMI, as they say today precisely after texting tmi for hours themselves. So that part of the gift I chose is not happening.

What could happen is that I would figure out why I was approached by the woman bearing gifts. A Trojan horse? A lesson to be learned? Should I have dug into (pardon the professional pun) her intentions more? Should I have sketched or photographed her as archaeologists do? Was the woman Greek and not Galician? Was she Circe and not Sybil? 

Or if she was not a woman, how might this narrative of mine have differed?