I went to see Toy Story 3 this afternoon. I'd been in a funk all day because of the holiday tomorrow and I thought seeing a well-reviewed movie would help alleviate my blues.
It is an excellent movie, with wonderful writing and a complex plot. I was glad it was a 3-D film and I was wearing dark glasses because when Andy gave away the toys he'd outgrown to the little girl who would give them a welcoming home, the tears just rolled out of my eyes.
Both eyes. They just silently spilled out during the movie's heart-rending final scene, a denouement that imparted so much promise and goodwill for everyone and everything.
I usually don't cry, although some tears did spill out a couple of years ago after we lost a Bucket Trip companion to a heart attack in the Grand Canyon. I don't think the movie audience today noticed my water-stained cheeks because I craftily didn't wipe my face.
You see, this morning when I was pulling up weeds in a corner of my yard, I came across a plastic green army man buried in the dirt, lost during some long-forgotten battle a long time ago. It was the type of toy soldier that my middle son always used to play with, sometimes in the yard.
Finding this weather beaten little trooper reminded me of Johnny, and also my two other estranged sons, all of whom are adults now. I just hate it when the good-bad memories get stirred up.