![]() I know my mother was lonely and scared. I know she was bored. I know the beeps and shining floors drove her mad. But I was in Davis. I went to a movie- The Horse Whisperer– hoping the darkness would guide Jill’s hand to my thigh, her blonde head to my shoulder. The long movie was overproduced and sappy, and Jill never touched me, not even when I overtook the armrest between us and bent close, smelling her jasmine perfume. When I was seventeen I asked to miss school to go see her. It was mid-week and I told Dad that I couldn’t take it anymore–I missed my mom–and had to make the four hour trip south. He said yes, of course you can go, looking proud and tired through his red eyes, and I ran back to my room and picked up the phone and called Jill, my on and off again girlfriend who lived on the way to the hospital. We were currently off, but she said I could stop by, so the next morning, a sunny Wednesday, I stopped in Davis. While my mother was dying in the San Francisco hospital, I wasn’t thinking of her. Occasionally, I would, but not for the right reasons. He hung on to the rope, and for awhile, it seemed as though the movie paused: just the still frame of the man, hanging, the V shape of the tight rope, and the crowd, eyes above, silent and waiting.ĥ. He dangled, his legs kicking, but there was nowhere to go but down. His body slid another couple feet and he hung by his hands. The scene took far too long. He stood in beautiful balance between two tall buildings a crowd gathered below, shouting and pointing. The walker gripped a long balancing pole, but soon it fell away, and for a few seconds the man teetered between safety and horror: he went on his toes, angled his hips he thrust his arms to one side, then another. I wondered if he’d prepared for the moment. Surely tight rope walkers consider their fall they imagine where and how, the few seconds of gravity. And suddenly, the man slipped, but snagged the rope under his armpits. There were a couple of executions by electric chair, firing squad scenarios, and a few hangings. One afternoon, a high school friend brought over Faces of Death. In the end, my mother was angry about the sex scene in the beginning. I remember the little girl in a red coat running through the Jewish ghetto, the naked, starving people, the part where Schindler tells the bad concentration camp commander that real power is pardoning, not executing the Jews. But every so often, out of the blue, one would sneak in. My parents didn’t allow rated R movies in our home. We’d curl up under a blanket–even in the summer–and play with one another’s bodies. Once, in late August, we thumbed through titles, checking the backs, when I spotted The Sound of Music. I flipped the movie over and like a gift from on high I read 174 minutes. I felt like shouting thanks to the heavens. We turned off the lights, took up our position on the couch, and nestled under the blanket. Before Julie Andrews could finish the hills are alive with the sound of music my singing mother walked in and sat a foot away from our heads. ![]() During high school my girlfriend and I would select which movies to watch by their run times: the longer the better. ![]() I imagine all those folding chairs, the murmurs of anticipation, the projector warming for the arrival.Ģ. I’ve heard stories that once you get to heaven you sit in front of everyone you know and they replay your life so everyone can see.
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