The End of the Movie (repeat)

By Christopher Bundy

August 19, 2019

The End of the Movie (repeat)

Originally published September 1, 2014. 

Today: summer afternoon on the front porch as thunderheads grow over the top of a giant oak. In the yard you perform perfect cartwheels, your legs long and straight in the air.

Watch this, Daddy, you say,

and execute another textbook cartwheel before you bounce up the steps to sit in my lap and rest your head against mine. You stare at the darkening sky. A breeze lifts your hair as distant thunder rumbles. 

This is like the end of the movie, you say. After we survived some terrible thing but now we’re together and safe with music playing nice. 

And I see it too—the end of the movie. I play my part, holding your slight frame in my oversized hands. We've survived the apocalypse. Whether the slaughter came as virus, war, or lake of fire, the horror show won’t matter because we’ll have each other. 

A siren wails two blocks south. Minutes later a fire engine speeds past. You place your hands over your ears until it's out of sight. 

Is somebody’s house on fire? you ask. 

I guess so. 

Do they have kids like me? 

I’m sure they’ll be all right. 

Yeah, you say. 

But you're not sure. 

Nothing to worry about, I say. 

Maybe they can overcome terrible things, too. So when the fire’s out, they can all be together and safe with the music playing nice. 

Exactly, I say.

And like that you believe me.


Photo "cartwheels at night" provided by Nick Chapman, via Flickr creative commons license.

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