Adam is away visiting his sick mother this week. The kids and I are here, performing our usual daily tasks – routines so often provide a kind of buffer or safety zone, at least until someone hits peak tiredness and snaps. A thoughtless remark or stinging comeback can let out the positivity in a room, like a leaky balloon, leaving a deflated silence. Trying to juggle tasks, while doing my own stuff, is such a normal activity, I almost wonder if it’s worth remarking on. Then I remember that I am all for expressing, and commemorating, these realities of domesticity. When I feel my patience at a very, very close edge, I try to come back to the moment. By remembering a moment, I feel like I’ve given it the honour it deserves.
Riley, when watching Close Encounters of the Third Kind:
The belly of the spaceship is opening; scientists await the sight of their alien visitors with anticipation, as is the audience, who has sat through the movie, wanting a resolution to the narrative. The lights are bright; their glare, and vibrancy, make it hard to see the shape when it finally descends the ramp on to the landing dock.
It is a tall, stick figure. Shocked at the sight of the creature, Riley involuntarily shudders and wriggles in his seat. I can usually tell if he is uncomfortable with something straight away, because his body shows it, and this is one of those times.
However, almost immediately, he looks back at the screen. Cupping his hand over his mouth, he calls out to the television. “I apologise for being disrespectful, Mr. Alien! I didn’t mean to do that.”
Later, his optimism and general regard of these aliens is justified beyond all doubt: “I knew they’d give Barry back.”
And with a satisfied nod, he went off to bed.
I sat there and thought about the movie, how it was saddening to think that they looked after our kind better than we (can) look after our own.
