I took the day off last week and went to see Benjamin Button at the local cinema during their Newbies slot. And I watched, eyes brimming, while babies howled around me. I don’t know why I wept through it. I suppose some of it was recognizing my mortality, realizing that I will never kiss Brad Pitt nor ever look like Cate Blanchett. But most of it stems from the guilt and sorrow I feel for not being with my mother during her twilight years. I call as often I as can and I visit once a year but that’s not enough is it?
And will my children be with me when I grow old?
I hope to be surrounded with my children at my end. And I promise not to divulge to them, as the mother in Benjamin Britton, does that oh, by the way, your father is not your father. (Oops, I hope I didn’t ruin it for you)
I’m not sure I bought into the fact that the daughter knew so little about her mother’s life. But the movie did have a point. Do we ever really know our mothers? Do our daughters and sons every really know us? And does it matter?
Will it matter when it’s my time that my children know the tricks I got up to when I was young? I think the only thing that matters is the love I have for them. Which I hope will remain in the air like the scent of a rose long after I’m gone.