Memories
I watched Stealth.
And that's all I can say about it -- no review -- nothing. Well, actually, I do have this much: fighter jets that talk are not acceptable when you are trying to pass your film off as anything other than fantasy; save the talking robots (that ultimately develop feelings and give up their "lives" to save yours!) for Star Wars.
I guess I wasn't expecting much;towards the end I even enjoyed myself a little the only reason why I watched it was because my friend had free tickets (now I know why). After all sorts of fiascos, like this other couple who were assigned to the exact seats that we were in, and losing one of the spoons in our ice-cream tub, we finally settled down.
The cinema was pretty empty, given the movie that was being screened. It was also a Tuesday afternoon; I was surprised that we weren't the only ones there. We were doing some pre-movie chit-chatting, about everything and nothing, when he leaned over and asked, lowering his voice gently: "Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Yeah?"
"So..." he began, hesitatingly, as if unsure as to how to broach the subject. "It's been a while since Rocky's... you know," he shifted in his seat, and cleared his throat, waiting to see if I would react; I didn't. "Are you okay? Better?"
I typically don't sit back and assess the status of my grief, but I guess I've been crying a lot less lately; at least, not on a daily basis anymore. That was always to be expected. Now and then, though, I get flashes of memories, and it still hurts -- only because I know that I'll never be able to relive them. Nothing has to happen -- no one has to hit the remote for the images to come on.
But there also times where things do happen -- things that hit the trigger to the floodgates -- like finding his baby clothes folded and tucked neatly in the corner of my shelf. You know, the ones he wore while he was nursing the wound from his surgery. I unfurled one of them the other night, and I remembered how, for those weeks, we'd cleaned his wound every day. Warm water, dry gauze, antiseptic powder -- twice a day. He never once flinched, but I cringed every time I felt those stitches under my touch.
Then there was the Herculean task of getting his shirt back on. Sometimes he resisted, other times he just wanted to be somewhere else -- like he'd suddenly feel the unexplainable urge to investigate the nooks and crannies under my table, and he'd just scoot off, oblivious to the fact we'd been trying to put his shirt on for the past 15 minutes, and had just succeeded in getting one leg in. We'd scream for him in exasperation, but when he looked back at us quizzingly, we'd laugh out loud at the expression of bewilderment he wore on his face. He made us laugh, and he made us love -- every single day.
***
A part of me really did die that day, even though I didn't know quite how the first time I said it; the part of me that cleans up poop and vomit, the part of me that can reach over to a warm furry body first thing in the morning, the part of me that separates the soft bones from the harder ones when I eat chicken, the part of me that delights in being greeted with barks and scratches when I come home every day, the part of me that races with a four-legged creature the last 50 metres home on our walks out.
I wonder: does a parent stop being a parent when their child dies? Can one still be a parent when there's no one to parent? How does one stop being a parent?
Do we stop loving someone when they die? Can we still love when there's no one to love? How does one stop loving?
When someone asks me, "Do you have a dog?" or "Do you have any pets at home?", why shouldn't I say, "Yes, I do have a dog"? He just isn't here with me now.
***
And that's all I can say about it -- no review -- nothing. Well, actually, I do have this much: fighter jets that talk are not acceptable when you are trying to pass your film off as anything other than fantasy; save the talking robots (that ultimately develop feelings and give up their "lives" to save yours!) for Star Wars.
I guess I wasn't expecting much;
The cinema was pretty empty, given the movie that was being screened. It was also a Tuesday afternoon; I was surprised that we weren't the only ones there. We were doing some pre-movie chit-chatting, about everything and nothing, when he leaned over and asked, lowering his voice gently: "Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Yeah?"
"So..." he began, hesitatingly, as if unsure as to how to broach the subject. "It's been a while since Rocky's... you know," he shifted in his seat, and cleared his throat, waiting to see if I would react; I didn't. "Are you okay? Better?"
I typically don't sit back and assess the status of my grief, but I guess I've been crying a lot less lately; at least, not on a daily basis anymore. That was always to be expected. Now and then, though, I get flashes of memories, and it still hurts -- only because I know that I'll never be able to relive them. Nothing has to happen -- no one has to hit the remote for the images to come on.
But there also times where things do happen -- things that hit the trigger to the floodgates -- like finding his baby clothes folded and tucked neatly in the corner of my shelf. You know, the ones he wore while he was nursing the wound from his surgery. I unfurled one of them the other night, and I remembered how, for those weeks, we'd cleaned his wound every day. Warm water, dry gauze, antiseptic powder -- twice a day. He never once flinched, but I cringed every time I felt those stitches under my touch.
Then there was the Herculean task of getting his shirt back on. Sometimes he resisted, other times he just wanted to be somewhere else -- like he'd suddenly feel the unexplainable urge to investigate the nooks and crannies under my table, and he'd just scoot off, oblivious to the fact we'd been trying to put his shirt on for the past 15 minutes, and had just succeeded in getting one leg in. We'd scream for him in exasperation, but when he looked back at us quizzingly, we'd laugh out loud at the expression of bewilderment he wore on his face. He made us laugh, and he made us love -- every single day.
***
A part of me really did die that day, even though I didn't know quite how the first time I said it; the part of me that cleans up poop and vomit, the part of me that can reach over to a warm furry body first thing in the morning, the part of me that separates the soft bones from the harder ones when I eat chicken, the part of me that delights in being greeted with barks and scratches when I come home every day, the part of me that races with a four-legged creature the last 50 metres home on our walks out.
I wonder: does a parent stop being a parent when their child dies? Can one still be a parent when there's no one to parent? How does one stop being a parent?
Do we stop loving someone when they die? Can we still love when there's no one to love? How does one stop loving?
When someone asks me, "Do you have a dog?" or "Do you have any pets at home?", why shouldn't I say, "Yes, I do have a dog"? He just isn't here with me now.
***
"It was more than a year since his death, more than a year since the news came; she seemed as though she would remember and mourn for ever... [W]hile we were still shaking hands, such a look of awful desolation came upon her face that I perceived she was one of those creatures that are not the playthings of Time. For her he had died only yesterday."
-- Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
posted by Laughingcow at 11:42 am
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