Do you remember, Janine,
when we were not yet
out of grade school,
how we used to play
at movie-making?
We had no cameras
or camcorders or iphones,
only our minds to record
the scenes conjured from
unbound imagination,
uninhibited and improvised,
film stars in a film no one
was watching nor would ever.
Sometimes we made your
sister be the monster and
we’d run away, but
other times, we took
ourselves and our project
very seriously.
I remember one scene
in particular. You played the
role of a mother and I was your son.
The context, the backstory,
the exposition is fuzzy, but I
remember that someone had
died, or there was some other kind
of absence, or an anticipation
of an absence: I remember now.
For some reason, I was leaving home.
There was no silliness or
childish theatrics; our intentions
were fierce and authentic
and whatever the words were,
the words we said to each other,
we believed them and allowed
ourselves to be moved.
I was saying goodbye to
my mother and we embraced
and we wept as if our lives
depended on it.
Maybe they did.
michael jarmer 