My dad came over the other night and brought with him a short piece that I sent to him shortly after Amy and I were first married. I wrote it for a class (I don't remember which one) and decided to send a copy to him and to my brother Marc. It's a reflection I had while waiting anxiously for Star Wars: Episode I The Phantom Menace to begin.
The aroma of butter-drenched popcorn and stale bubble gum permeates the air as I ease back into my seven-dollar seat. It’s been sixteen years and a few more hours standing in line wondering...wondering if it will be the same as the last time...or the time before...or the time before that, which was the first time.
I shift backwards and leap from the wooden platform onto the grass. Marc falls behind me, his blaster fallen from his hand. We jump up and race for the Speeder bikes.
“Come on!” I shout. “They’re after us.” We glide back and forth, higher and higher, rocking the rusty, blue swing set until we’re hit by enemy fire. Thrown from our rides, we spot our attacker. We charge. I pull out my golf-club-tube lightsaber from my Smurf belt and chase Benji the Stormtrooper, shouting and swinging with all of my might. He hops the fence, howling with fear, so Marc steps up and we duel for a moment. Just before I knock him off the doghouse, he reminds me that we’re on the same team. Energetically, we race off to find Darth Vader and Boba Fett and destroy them before they get the princess.
The Millennium Falcon maneuvers past.
The Sarlaac pit opens up.
And we climb back into the Ewok Village just in time.
The lights dim and John Williams’ familiar anthem strikes a chord in my heart. Han Solo and his younger brother Luke will always live on, no matter what happens between the Rebel Alliance and the Empire.
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