the way we used to
day 2: 100 day project
Last night, Esme and I snuggled down, as I fought off the last of a strangely timed summer cold (right when I decided to start 100 days of writing), to watch the final Harry Potter movie — The Deathly Hallows II. Making it to the last movie felt exciting. Years ago, we’d had ambitions to be the kind of people who read all the books first, but had petered off helplessly when sicknesses hit and Hogwarts magic was the only remedy either of us wanted. Equally exciting was the fact that it was going to be just she and I watching on the couch. She lets me hold the remote ( a gesture of sublime trust), and it’s understood that I will turn it up and down depending on what’s needed. If it’s too intense, we turn the sound down —usually it’s the music that’s just too much for her — “why does the music always have to be so dramatic?” she asks. Then, when it gets quiet, we turn it back up to normal listening levels again — sometimes too high, and then we jump and scream when it gets loud again. Up and down. Up and down. For anyone else, it would be maddening, but not for us.
Agreed and understood. I still fast forward through scary bits even when I’m alone and I’m 46 years old. I’ve probably only seen 30 collective minutes of the entire Walking Dead series. I mostly like the parts when they have a quiet moment in someone’s abandoned house, and they find a canister of old Nestle Quick or beans and talk in whispers about what life used to be like. It makes me look around and wonder what someone would be delighted to find in my house if the world ended. It makes me look around and think, this is what I’d miss: this soft pink blanket, covering my kids’ eyes when Voldemort comes on screen, hitting the mute button, and both of us pressing our heads together and peeking out of the covers with a kitten meowing in protest every time we move. The smell of my kid’s freshly shampooed head mixed with chlorine from a day at the pool makes me want to hit pause on everything else in the universe. But I don’t want to be weird. I don’t want her to think I’m weird as I sneak deep inhalations off her head. It’s near the end of the movie where Harry finally learns the truth about Professor Snape, so I pretend that’s why I’m crying, ya know, because of how much he loved Lilly and all — and it is partly, this part kills me every time. But mostly I’m pretending that I’m not already dreading the feeling of watching this movie ten years from now alone, just me and my remote, thinking about what things used to be like. I tell myself I’m silly and that years from now, she’ll take my phone call, and we’ll watch it together over the phone — the two of us holding our remotes at the ready, hitting pause at all the same parts, up and down, up and down, agreeing and understanding each other — the way we used to. That’s what I tell myself.
Love the way you invite us into your intimate world. So relatable yet so different. What a wonderful thing to look forward to reading everyday!
yes, so beautiful!