vibrate.

January 18, 2012

Sometimes I think, if you were still here, that Amelie would be your favorite film. You’d relish in reading the subtitles, twinkle along with the accordion, and hide your husband’s stuff for kicks. You’d bite your nails in the theatre, simmer in sepia, and pray for Amelie’s suicidal fish. You’d have wished cutting up old love letters was something you’d done first, then, after going home, start a scrapbook, stare at it for hours, glue things in it. You’d end up scouring your house for old photos, menus, tie your hair back, grab a polaroid. Pretend you’d caused natural disasters. Put on dresses in your closet. Beg your husband to get a scooter to ride around on because life is short and wouldn’t it be cute if the two of you rode around on a sissy-fag vespa together with no where to go and not a lot to do once you got there.

He would have enjoyed it, (I’m sure he did) not even having to read the subtitles in the first place. You would have tried to keep up with him, and laughed when the translations were wrong. You would have tried to save the world. (You did anyway.) Maybe I would have been sitting next to you rolling my eyes. Maybe we’d be sitting on the sissy-fag vespa together. Maybe we would have cracked creme brulee, (far less amusing to you, I would imagine), you would say “Be careful with that butane torch!” as I waved it artfully across the top of the custard dish. “Don’t catch anything on fire you little twerp.” “I won’t.” I’d say, waving it in your face.

You’d have sighed at glassman, cried when Princess Diana died, laughed at “REN-OIR!” taken up painting, baked blueberry pie, gone to the city to have an adventure.

It struck me the other day. Can’t say why. (Only because I don’t recall.) I thought about how sad it was, after people die, all the great art they’ll have missed.

I’m sad you missed this movie.

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One Response to “vibrate.”

  1. puckrox said

    This is, I think, what weighs me down the heaviest when it comes to thinking about my mom. Every time I read a book I know she loved all I can do is think, “Wow, I wish she was here so I could talk to her about it.” Even sadder is when i come across something new that I know she would’ve loved, because she’ll never get that chance. This just happened to me the other day when I finished up a book called “Looking for Alaska”, and maybe it’s because one of the main themes of the book is coping with death, but all I could do is grieve the fact that I’ll never get to recommend it to her, or, more likely, she never had a chance to recommend it to me because she was gone before it was ever published.

    It’s strange where we see the people that are gone. Besides art/literature, I can’t help think of my mom whenever I see red coffee mugs. It seems so random, but that will be something that always sticks out in my mind.

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