From the article archive
Remember Me
In the days after the incident with the terrorists and the nuclear bomb, my life began to settle back into a routine. One crisis was averted; now, I had some time to relax, train, and wait for the next one.
I used some of that time to start turning this apartment into something that felt like home. My collection of books had grown considerably, and when I wasn't training, I was usually lost in one of Shakespeare's plays or a fantasy novel. It struck me as truly ironic that now, as a spy in London, I was doing what I had meant to do as an English major in Philadelphia: losing myself in a sea of words. This was better than being an English major, even if it was lonlier than being a college student. I read what I chose to read when I chose to read it, with no papers, no pressure, and no post-modernism.
I had also started decorating a bit. I kept most of the furnishings that came with the place, since they were nice enough, and buying furniture isn't the sort of shopping that appeals to me. What I did buy was pictures. Most of what I chose had a fantasy or Medieval theme, like the prints of "The Lady of Shalott" and "The Acolade" that I hung in my living room.
The picture that still held the spot closest to my heart, though, was one I brought with me. Through three worlds, I'd carried that little photograph of my boyfriend, and I now had it framed by my bed. One could say, I suppose, that I wasn't coping well with losing him or with losing anyone else. Most nights, I dreamed about my family or my friends, even though I'd been gone from their lives for quite some time. There had been more than a few mornings I'd woken up to a sharp pang of disappointment that I was still here, that the verse wasn't all some insane dream. I wasn't quite sure how much time had passed since I left my old life, but it had to be close to a year now. I'd already spent more than four months in this world.
One day, I was absorbed in a book of Christina Rossetti's poems when I read one that brought me to tears. She'd always been one of my favorite poets, but, although I'd read this one before, I hadn't remembered that it was one of hers.
"I guess it's time to give it up," I said to myself, "and stop wishing for what I can't have." I walked up to my room and sat on my bed, holding the framed photograph in my hands. I brushed away a couple tears before taking it out of the frame. I set it on the table and got out a piece of stationary to write a letter.
It was, in all likelihood, a letter that wouldn't ever be received. I'd never scriff-mailed anything to anyone before, and I didn't think it could be done with someone who wasn't a verser. Somehow, I hoped, there had to be a way.
At the top of the page, I copied the sonnet I had read:
"Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
--Christina Rossetti"
"You may not believe this, dear," I wrote, "but I'm not dead. That's the good news; the bad is that I'm worlds away from where you are and not likely to ever find a way back. I couldn't tell you everything that's happened in one letter, so I won't try. Just know that I'm alive and all right, in what I guess you'd call a parallel universe. It's not heaven, not hell, just another world. I don't know when or if you'll get this, but I wanted to say goodbye properly. I hope you're happy and that your life is good. I hope that you find someone else who makes you as happy as you made me. Whoever she is, I hope she knows how lucky she is to have you. You'll always be my first love, and if I live a thousand lifetimes, I'll never forget you. Tell Matt and Lara that I miss them and my mom that I love her. I'd ask you to say the same to Dad and Andy, but they won't believe you could've talked to me. I love you.
Love, Kelly"
I paperclipped the picture to the letter, trying to keep my tears from falling on the paper. At that moment, I paused. This was all a very nice sentimental gesture, but the truth was that I hadn't the slightest idea how to get this to him. I knew that to scriff mail something, a verser had to disown it, usually verbally, and give it to someone else. Nothing would happen until one of them died and moved on to the next world. But, this could only work between versers. If I disowned it without giving it to someone else who could receive it, it would stay here when I left this world, probably getting thrown away to clean the place up for the next person who would live here.
I chose my words carefully, hoping that they'd work. "This picture and this letter aren't mine. They belong to Matt Keck, not the one who lives in this world, if there is one, but the one I used to know. If he can't get them, then I'll keep them until I find a way to deliver them to him." I hoped that saying those last words would keep the letter from getting lost if he couldn't get it. If scriff mail wouldn't do it, maybe some magic spell or psychic power could. Maybe someday, I'd learn such a trick. Either way, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest. I tucked both picture and letter into a dresser drawer and walked out of the room and into my new life.
I used some of that time to start turning this apartment into something that felt like home. My collection of books had grown considerably, and when I wasn't training, I was usually lost in one of Shakespeare's plays or a fantasy novel. It struck me as truly ironic that now, as a spy in London, I was doing what I had meant to do as an English major in Philadelphia: losing myself in a sea of words. This was better than being an English major, even if it was lonlier than being a college student. I read what I chose to read when I chose to read it, with no papers, no pressure, and no post-modernism.
I had also started decorating a bit. I kept most of the furnishings that came with the place, since they were nice enough, and buying furniture isn't the sort of shopping that appeals to me. What I did buy was pictures. Most of what I chose had a fantasy or Medieval theme, like the prints of "The Lady of Shalott" and "The Acolade" that I hung in my living room.
The picture that still held the spot closest to my heart, though, was one I brought with me. Through three worlds, I'd carried that little photograph of my boyfriend, and I now had it framed by my bed. One could say, I suppose, that I wasn't coping well with losing him or with losing anyone else. Most nights, I dreamed about my family or my friends, even though I'd been gone from their lives for quite some time. There had been more than a few mornings I'd woken up to a sharp pang of disappointment that I was still here, that the verse wasn't all some insane dream. I wasn't quite sure how much time had passed since I left my old life, but it had to be close to a year now. I'd already spent more than four months in this world.
One day, I was absorbed in a book of Christina Rossetti's poems when I read one that brought me to tears. She'd always been one of my favorite poets, but, although I'd read this one before, I hadn't remembered that it was one of hers.
"I guess it's time to give it up," I said to myself, "and stop wishing for what I can't have." I walked up to my room and sat on my bed, holding the framed photograph in my hands. I brushed away a couple tears before taking it out of the frame. I set it on the table and got out a piece of stationary to write a letter.
It was, in all likelihood, a letter that wouldn't ever be received. I'd never scriff-mailed anything to anyone before, and I didn't think it could be done with someone who wasn't a verser. Somehow, I hoped, there had to be a way.
At the top of the page, I copied the sonnet I had read:
"Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
--Christina Rossetti"
"You may not believe this, dear," I wrote, "but I'm not dead. That's the good news; the bad is that I'm worlds away from where you are and not likely to ever find a way back. I couldn't tell you everything that's happened in one letter, so I won't try. Just know that I'm alive and all right, in what I guess you'd call a parallel universe. It's not heaven, not hell, just another world. I don't know when or if you'll get this, but I wanted to say goodbye properly. I hope you're happy and that your life is good. I hope that you find someone else who makes you as happy as you made me. Whoever she is, I hope she knows how lucky she is to have you. You'll always be my first love, and if I live a thousand lifetimes, I'll never forget you. Tell Matt and Lara that I miss them and my mom that I love her. I'd ask you to say the same to Dad and Andy, but they won't believe you could've talked to me. I love you.
Love, Kelly"
I paperclipped the picture to the letter, trying to keep my tears from falling on the paper. At that moment, I paused. This was all a very nice sentimental gesture, but the truth was that I hadn't the slightest idea how to get this to him. I knew that to scriff mail something, a verser had to disown it, usually verbally, and give it to someone else. Nothing would happen until one of them died and moved on to the next world. But, this could only work between versers. If I disowned it without giving it to someone else who could receive it, it would stay here when I left this world, probably getting thrown away to clean the place up for the next person who would live here.
I chose my words carefully, hoping that they'd work. "This picture and this letter aren't mine. They belong to Matt Keck, not the one who lives in this world, if there is one, but the one I used to know. If he can't get them, then I'll keep them until I find a way to deliver them to him." I hoped that saying those last words would keep the letter from getting lost if he couldn't get it. If scriff mail wouldn't do it, maybe some magic spell or psychic power could. Maybe someday, I'd learn such a trick. Either way, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest. I tucked both picture and letter into a dresser drawer and walked out of the room and into my new life.
Recovered from the Gaming Outpost database backup. Original wording is preserved; damaged punctuation and presentation markup have been repaired. Historical links without a local match point to the Internet Archive.