Jim and I got some unusual free time together last night, and we spent our two hours at the movies, watching Bridge to Terabithia. I read the book when I was...twelve? I can't remember, exactly, and I couldn't remember the whole story except that I was mad when I finished it and cried and cried. (I was mad because I hated it when bad things happened to characters that had become as real to me as my family - like when Matthew died in Anne of Green Gables.)
Jim couldn't remember if he had ever read the book. I continuously find these things odd because his mother was his elementary school librarian (she still is). I would have lived on a cloud if my mother were the librarian, but no, he was more interested in computers than books.
Anyway... the movie. I told him it would be sad, but good. And it was. However, although I cried once again and was wrapped up in the characters on the screen, I could see WHY everything happened. It had to be that way to be real. It had to be that way so Jess would never forget (and could never ignore) the differences in his life. Of course, I still wanted it to end differently, but I could accept it the way it was. So I wasn't mad, thank goodness. I don't care how much it might have differed from the book because the tone, the story, the characters, and the dream were all there. Boy did it affect me!
When we got home, I went upstairs to see my daughter. She was on the aerobed, where my dad had finally gotten her to sleep (she's impossible in that way). She looked as soft as the quilt. I picked her up and nursed her while she was half-asleep, and as we rocked in the chair, I cried a little for the parents in the movie. Her hair was sticking up, and I wiped it down with my tear-moistened fingers. Eventually, she filled her tummy and fell back asleep with her mouth open and I laid her in our bed.
I'll read the book again, when she is old enough to sit and listen.