Three weeks later, we returned to the theater.
Lisa had flown in to stay with Frank.
This time, she understood how difficult caregiving had become.
She promised to come regularly.
The Spider-Man movie was barely still showing.
One late screening each night.
We bought two tickets.
Row F.
Middle seats.
Nobody sat
behind us.
The lights dimmed.
Owen took my hand.
We watched the entire film.
Beginning to end.
When the credits appeared, he stayed seated.
“It’s funny,” he said.
“What?”
“These movies all teach almost the same lesson.”
“What lesson?”
“That having power means you’re responsible for what you do with it.”
He looked thoughtful.
“I used to think being brave meant fighting.”
He shook his head.
“My father was loud and strong. That didn’t make him brave.”
I squeezed his hand.
“Sometimes,” Owen said, “maybe courage is just getting down on somebody’s level and telling them you see them.”
I smiled.
“You’d make a pretty good Spider-Man.”
“My arms are too short.”
“Ethan could fix that.”
Owen laughed.
When the lights came up, one lonely piece of popcorn lay on the floor.
Owen picked it up.
Then he gently tucked it into my hair.
“For old times’ sake.”
I laughed
loudly enough that someone in the back row turned around.
The following spring, Frank passed away peacefully at home.
Owen was beside him.
So was I.
Lisa joined us by phone.
For almost two months before that, Frank rarely recognized Owen.
But the night before he died, he woke in the middle of the night.
Owen was sitting beside him.
Frank studied his face.
Then asked,
“Did you see the ending?”
Owen didn’t understand.
“The ending of what?”
“Spider-Man.”
Owen began to cry.
