Tree of Life (Terrence Malick, 2011)
When I was a child I lived in a small mews flat with my mother and my sister, with my aunt living in the flat above us. In the space of a short period of time both my sister and my aunt died. My aunt, my sister. And for my mother it was her sister, and her daughter. For what felt like a long time, we moved around; hitch-hiking from place to place.
One morning, I woke up in a house in the countryside. There had been a bonfire the night before and my mother and I picked through the embers to find potatoes that had been thrown into the fire the night before. We ate them for breakfast.
Later we settled again. On the day we moved into our new home I found a butterfly in the stairwell. It was dead. There was a girl there, and the pair of us stared at the butterfly for a long time. Many years after this, I found another butterfly in the same stairwell. This time it was alive. There was another girl there, but this time the girl was my daughter. We watched the butterfly for a long time.
Her grandmother, my mother, had died many years before. Before she was born. They never met. Later that day her sister was born, in the same room that had been my bedroom as a child. After my mother died I found the graveyard where my sister's ashes were scattered. It took a lot of work to find it. No one was invited to the funeral. My mother didn't want anyone to be there. There is no headstone, no plaque. I now work next to that same graveyard.
My mother longed for another daughter, but never had one. She would have loved my daughters. Would have spoiled them. Would have told them about her own childhood, growing up on a farm. How she had been brought up vegetarian. And how one day she ate a piece of raw meat intended for the dogs, she picked it up and ate it with a carving knife, the knife sliced open her tongue, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to hide what she had done.
The dead butterfly was covered in a powder that came off on my fingertips when I touched it. My daughter held out her tiny hand and let the butterfly settle on her. The potato from the bonfire tasted so good that it didn't need salt or butter or anything. The night my daughter was born she opened and closed her hand on her face, scratching at herself. Her older sister had done the same thing when she was born. My mother hid herself away in the bathroom, wishing her tongue would stop bleeding.
Eventually I'll die. And in a perfect world my children will be upset, but the pain will ebb, and they too will, eventually, grow old and die. I don't like to think about that, but it hangs there. And that's the best possibility out of a myriad of potential futures.
One future that is certain is that everyone will die. And that the world we live on will also die. That is absolutely certain. But for the time being we live in a paradise.
I think of my mother often. Very often. And I see her in my daughters. Even though they never met. I think of that time in the countryside. Waking up in a strange, silent house. My mother taking me outside. It was cold. The embers of the bonfire were still warm. The potatoes were wrapped in foil. And they tasted so good. And I loved being with my mother. She didn't talk to me like I was a child. She never did. And we sat outside, even though it was cold, and ate together, and talked.
One morning, I woke up in a house in the countryside. There had been a bonfire the night before and my mother and I picked through the embers to find potatoes that had been thrown into the fire the night before. We ate them for breakfast.
Later we settled again. On the day we moved into our new home I found a butterfly in the stairwell. It was dead. There was a girl there, and the pair of us stared at the butterfly for a long time. Many years after this, I found another butterfly in the same stairwell. This time it was alive. There was another girl there, but this time the girl was my daughter. We watched the butterfly for a long time.
Her grandmother, my mother, had died many years before. Before she was born. They never met. Later that day her sister was born, in the same room that had been my bedroom as a child. After my mother died I found the graveyard where my sister's ashes were scattered. It took a lot of work to find it. No one was invited to the funeral. My mother didn't want anyone to be there. There is no headstone, no plaque. I now work next to that same graveyard.
My mother longed for another daughter, but never had one. She would have loved my daughters. Would have spoiled them. Would have told them about her own childhood, growing up on a farm. How she had been brought up vegetarian. And how one day she ate a piece of raw meat intended for the dogs, she picked it up and ate it with a carving knife, the knife sliced open her tongue, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to hide what she had done.
The dead butterfly was covered in a powder that came off on my fingertips when I touched it. My daughter held out her tiny hand and let the butterfly settle on her. The potato from the bonfire tasted so good that it didn't need salt or butter or anything. The night my daughter was born she opened and closed her hand on her face, scratching at herself. Her older sister had done the same thing when she was born. My mother hid herself away in the bathroom, wishing her tongue would stop bleeding.
Eventually I'll die. And in a perfect world my children will be upset, but the pain will ebb, and they too will, eventually, grow old and die. I don't like to think about that, but it hangs there. And that's the best possibility out of a myriad of potential futures.
One future that is certain is that everyone will die. And that the world we live on will also die. That is absolutely certain. But for the time being we live in a paradise.
I think of my mother often. Very often. And I see her in my daughters. Even though they never met. I think of that time in the countryside. Waking up in a strange, silent house. My mother taking me outside. It was cold. The embers of the bonfire were still warm. The potatoes were wrapped in foil. And they tasted so good. And I loved being with my mother. She didn't talk to me like I was a child. She never did. And we sat outside, even though it was cold, and ate together, and talked.