(Spoiler Alert for Time Traveler’s Wife)
Last night I had a rare treat, an evening out at the movies. I was so excited that I half expected the ushers to sing like a scene out of Annie, but the teenage ticketteers were their same surly selves. No matter.
I went to see The Time Traveler’s wife, which I have read twice. Sure I can say, “The book was better than the movie,” but the movie was no slouch. Through foreshadowing in the movie and because I had read the book twice, I knew that Henry was going to die at the end. His expiration date is practically stamped on his forehead like he is a gallon of milk. Then in the end, because he can time travel, he gets one more moment with his wife and daughter. One more hug. One more “I love you.” One more good-bye.
The book and now the movie caused my mind to wander to all things Jean. My memories of her are tainted by an overwhelming longing to warn her, to save her, to usher her and Jim to someplace safe where December 19th is just a day on the calendar. When I visit her in my memories, there is a voice in the back of my mind shouting, “Shake her! Tell her what is coming! Stop it!” But I can’t, because I didn’t.
And as much as I wish that I could have one more moment with my best friend, one more hug, one more “I love you,” one last good-bye, I know that I could not stand it. Because now I know how it would end. That it would end. And how could I let her go again. How would I ever let go?
I know that someday I will see Jean again. I will be able to hug her, tell her how much I have missed her, and how there was a whole in my life when she left that could never be filled. Only, when I see her again there will be no good-byes, no letting go, no December 19th. As hard as it is, I think that I will wait.
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