The King's Speech

I saw The King's Speech in the theater where I had my first kiss (I sat in the back row then, the third seat from the left aisle).  Only this time I sat a little farther forward (the fourth row from the back, the sixth seat from the left aisle), though I felt maybe the same as I did when I was twelve at times: first kisses sum up all of life's major crossroads.

The simplest test of a man's civility is whether or not there is something about another grown man's helplessness that makes him feel small.  If he feels larger when a man is helpless, he is among the least of men in history.

I sat in the dark with my heart in my hands feeling damned civilized, failing in my suspension of disbelief only when Winston Churchill came on screen (there is something about him that cannot be played).  Colin Firth, unchained before the camera at last, allowed it not merely to record him but to become his friend as he played a man struggling to make the microphone his friend. 

What stories we live. 

There in the dark, living my story, I felt my stammering tale the most.

That was a week ago last Friday, an eternity. 

Now I am beside the window listening to the rain, listening to my mother and father take halting steps with their illnesses to the door, and I can hear from upstairs that he has offered her his arm as they go out into the rain to watch The King's Speech.