The Time Traveler’s Wife is a great book, and the movie is good, too. I liked both. But the last scene in the movie (which isn’t in the book) is stuck in my head. And it has recently made me think about why it affected me so much when I saw the movie.
In the last scene, which is just over three minutes, Henry travels into the future, the meadow, and sees his daughter Alba, now age nine. (Henry dies when Alba is five.) Alba immediately sends her friends Max and Rosa to run to the house to get her mom.
Henry spends one minute and twenty seconds with Alba, telling her the story of how he met Clare. Clare runs through the meadow and into Henry’s arms and spends 59 seconds with him before he goes.
And so, I think, what would I give (what would anyone give) to have a minute or two with someone who is gone (and by “gone” I don’t necessarily mean deceased). Maybe I’d go back to Kat’s third birthday party or Emily’s high school graduation or Mom’s house on the day after Thanksgiving or Talladega with Dad.
Early this morning I handed my phone to Joy (who was whining and bouncing on my back) so she could watch reels on YouTube. I then lay back down and closed my eyes. Because it was freakin’ 6:45 a.m. Suddenly I opened my eyes. I rolled out of bed and got dressed. And I searched for Joy. She was in the basement watching some annoying thirty-second videos by a Tik-Tok’er named Okanutie.
“Joy, please give me the phone. Let’s go up and get breakfast.” She handed me the phone, and I put it in my pocket.
Instead of Cheerios and screentime, Joy and I had mini donuts and milk and made funny faces. She does this imitation game in which I have to do exactly what she does—hand gestures, sticking a finger in her mouth while making funny noises, peek-a-boo poses, etc. And she laughed so hard that I laughed. After her bath, she lay on our king size bed and gave me something like thirty kisses. And I was smiling so wide that my mouth hurt. And right then, at 8:30 a.m., I realized that those two minutes of kisses were going to be the best two minutes of my day.
I can’t go back to Kat’s third birthday party. I can’t even go back to this morning and have breakfast with Dr. Kat on her thirty-first birthday. But I can turn away from distractions (especially the iPhone) and give Joy and Deb and others my presence. I can: Sit next to Joy when she plays. Open up the Play-Doh and help her make balls and Play-Doh rope. Go to the pool with Deb and Joy and actually get in the pool. Make Joy’s favorite smoothies and drink them on the back porch. Put a dozen bath toys in the tub and watch Joy have a blast.
I can stop writing this blog entry, close the laptop, and pick up the girls from school.
Joy Elizabeth 