The Musings of a Future Son

The following narrative is set in the year 2045 from the perspective of my future son.

While hours, days and months are remembered, seconds tick down silently as decades rise up and pass us by.

    My mother’s voice signals the alarm at seven o’clock, alerting me of my tardiness. Bare feet tickle the metallic floor as bluish‐black windows reflect the morning sun, illuminating my room as I walk towards the elevator that will carry me to my morning repast.

    As I descend, mirrors manifest on the walls while mechanical hands surround me, dressing my body. During the automated preparation procedure an automated voice exclaims: "Good morning, do not forget that your father is speaking at school today about biomedical science." While the reminder was automated, I still appreciate the notice since I had for the moment forgotten about my father.

    Sitting down at my translucent counter I anxiously wait for breakfast. Suddenly the cubes on the ceiling emit yellow and blue chemicals, which accumulate in front of the two oceans that are my eyes. The recently made green concoction oxidizes and transmutes into my morning meal. After finishing my routine my ears ring as I hear my father’s voice uttering sharply, “We are going to be late!”

    Approaching the car, I can only smile at the complexity of the winged vehicle with its sleek design, folding doors, and turbo jets. Without a sound we leave the ground, accelerating into the sky and joining a fleet of other airborne vehicles. Several seconds pass before we are surrounded by vehicles of all shapes and sizes, some spherical, others cubical, like my father’s, all zooming along the skyway.

    Arriving at school, we rush to class, barely making it to hear my teacher announce that today my father is going talk about his profession. Making his way to the front of the room, my father begins, “It is my pleasure to be here today, my name is Michael Carey and I am a Biomedical Engineer.” When my father takes out a strange round object, the class becomes noticeably curious.

    “This sphere contains an organ that I created." He slams the orb on the floor and the outer shell dissolves revealing a small, thin sac. "People who have a disease called diabetes cannot naturally make insulin, which is needed for their cells to stay alive.” My father picks up the glob of tissue from the floor. “However, an artificial pancreas such as this," says my father while stretching out the synthetic organ and showing it to the class, "can create insulin even when the body cannot."

    "My own father had diabetes, and ever since I was a young boy, I vowed that when I grew up, I would help him."


                                              Every hour I cherish my father

                                            Every day he injects himself to live
                                  
Another month passes while disease destroys his body
                                          Another decade I hope that he survives
                                                          
I will cure him.