By Ruby Wallace

I was nine years old. My Aunt Sharon showed up in her beat-up Mustang, wearing knee-high boots and a smile that meant trouble. “Get in, kiddo,” she said. “We’re going to see The Monkees.”

Now, you have to understand – Aunt Sharon was my cool aunt. The one who wore go-go boots and drove too fast and played records too loud. She made my father nervous and my mother pretend to disapprove. She was everything I wanted to be when I grew up.

The concert was in Jacksonville, and I remember every detail of that night like it was yesterday. Aunt Sharon had scored third-row seats, and I was wearing my favorite dress – the one with the peter pan collar that my mother said was too nice for a rock concert. But Aunt Sharon said you should wear what feels good when you’re doing something special, and this was definitely special.

The opening act was this skinny guy nobody had heard of – Jimi Hendrix. He’d just played some big festival out in California and set his guitar on fire or something. I didn’t care about him – I was there for Mickey Dolenz. (Don’t judge me. I was nine, and Mickey Dolenz was dreamy.)

But then Jimi started playing.

Lord, I’d never heard anything like it. It was like… like somebody had grabbed lightning by the tail and taught it to sing. Mickey, darling, forgive me, but Jimi made me forget all about you. Aunt Sharon knew what was happening – she squeezed my hand and whispered, “Pay attention, baby. You’re watching history.”

After his set, Aunt Sharon somehow sweet-talked our way backstage. That’s who she was. Jimi was so kind. He spied me, nervous and out of place. He knelt down to my eye-level, shook my hand like I was a real person, not just some kid. Aunt Sharon took our photo together. He was still holding my hand, and I was beaming like a lighthouse.

At least, that’s how I remember it. But here’s the thing – that photo’s different now. I still have it, tucked in my wallet behind my mission ID. But Jimi’s not in it anymore. It’s just little me in my good dress, grinning at nothing.

Something changed. Apparently the festival that launched Jimi never happened. The tour never happened. That moment never happened. 

But I remember it. 

I remember the way his hand felt when he shook mine – calloused from guitar strings but gentle. I remember Aunt Sharon’s perfume mixing with cigarette smoke and hair spray. I remember everything.

You don’t forget meeting Jimi Hendrix, even if technically it never happened.

Yeah, sure, later I helped figure out all this business about timelines and innovation and cosmic whatnot. But that’s not the important part. The important part is that somewhere, in some version of reality, a nine-year-old girl in her best dress met Jimi Hendrix on the night she learned music could sound like lightning.

And somewhere, my Aunt Sharon is still teaching me that the best things in life happen when you dress up nice and talk your way backstage.

I still love The Monkees, by the way. Some things never change, no matter what dimension you’re in.