One of the jokes among our family was that whenever Dad went to

Host: The movie theater was empty now — the screen blank, the air still carrying the faint scent of popcorn and nostalgia. Rows of faded red seats stretched into darkness, waiting for an audience that had already gone home. The projector above hummed faintly, its light off, its purpose — like memory — suspended between silence and glow.

Jack sat near the center, in the seat that still squeaked the way it did years ago. A small ticket stub rested in his palm, soft from being held too long. Beside him, Jeeny sat quietly, her eyes turned toward the screen that showed nothing and everything at once.

Projected in faint text across that vast blank canvas were the words that had brought them there tonight:

“One of the jokes among our family was that whenever Dad went to the movies, he insisted on getting his senior citizen’s discount. It was laughable to view him as a traditional senior citizen; he was one of the most robust people I ever knew. Until, very suddenly, he wasn’t.” — Justin Trudeau

Jeeny: “It’s strange how a memory can sound like laughter and grief at the same time.”

Jack: “Yeah. That’s what makes it honest. Real loss always comes dressed in contradiction — one part absurd, one part unbearable.”

Host: The light from the aisle lamps shimmered softly across the floor, outlining the shapes of their feet. Dust motes floated like lost film grain through the projector beam, catching the quiet weight of their words.

Jeeny: “I love how he starts with humor. That’s how families survive grief — by wrapping heartbreak in the safe disguise of a joke.”

Jack: “Because humor’s the only way to trick pain into sitting down quietly. If you can laugh at the wound, maybe it won’t notice it’s bleeding.”

Jeeny: “Until suddenly, it does.”

Host: She said it softly, and the silence that followed made the words sound heavier — not bitter, but sacred. The theater seemed to hold its breath with them.

Jack: “You know what’s cruel about that line? ‘Until, very suddenly, he wasn’t.’ Death never keeps its appointments. It just walks in unannounced and takes its seat beside you.”

Jeeny: “And it doesn’t even buy a ticket.”

Jack: laughs softly “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “But there’s something beautiful in the way Trudeau told it. That his father’s strength wasn’t erased by his frailty — it just changed form. The robust man becomes memory, and memory becomes inheritance.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It is. All eulogies are poetry, whether we mean them to be or not.”

Host: The screen flickered faintly, the ghost of the last film still lingering — a brief flash of blue light, like memory replaying itself.

Jack: “I used to think grief was just sadness, you know? But it’s not. It’s continuity. You keep talking about the person because the silence feels unbearable. The stories keep them in the room a little longer.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why we tell them as jokes. Humor is our rebellion against finality. It says, You may be gone, but I still know how to make you laugh.”

Jack: “That’s the thing, though. Death turns even laughter into an echo. You laugh, and it reminds you they’re not there to hear it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point — laughter as invocation. We laugh so that they can hear us wherever they’ve gone.”

Host: The projector clicked once — the sound sharp in the stillness. Jeeny looked up at it, smiling faintly.

Jeeny: “I remember my dad used to fall asleep halfway through movies. Every time. He’d wake up during the credits and ask if it had a happy ending.”

Jack: “Mine did the opposite — he’d analyze every frame like it was a military operation. Movies weren’t entertainment; they were briefings.”

Jeeny: “Did you laugh about it?”

Jack: “Not then. But I do now. Maybe that’s how you know grief is turning into love again — when the memories start making you smile instead of break.”

Host: A single light from the projection booth fell across Jack’s face — catching the glint in his eyes, the kind that blurs the line between tears and reflection.

Jeeny: “That’s what Trudeau’s really saying, isn’t he? That no one’s ready for the shift — from presence to absence. You live thinking strength is permanent, and then, one quiet morning, it isn’t.”

Jack: “And suddenly, every small thing — the discount joke, the empty chair, the unfinished story — becomes an artifact.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The artifacts of the ordinary. The proof that they were here, and that you saw them.”

Host: The theater lights dimmed completely now, leaving only the faint glow from the emergency exit — a red reminder that there’s always a way out, even from the deepest dark.

Jack: “You think we ever stop missing them?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think the missing changes shape. At first, it’s sharp — unbearable. Then it softens. Turns into a rhythm. You carry them differently.”

Jack: “Like background music.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Always playing, even when you stop noticing the sound.”

Host: Outside, the wind pressed softly against the doors, carrying the scent of rain and old pavement — the kind of night that makes you nostalgic for warmth you can’t return to.

Jack: “You know what I envy about that quote? The normalcy. He didn’t write a grand eulogy; he wrote about movie discounts. That’s how you know it’s real. Love hides in the smallest details.”

Jeeny: “Because the sacred always disguises itself as ordinary. The divine hides in popcorn lines, grocery aisles, mismatched socks — the things you never thought you’d miss.”

Jack: “Maybe grief is just the process of learning how holy the mundane really was.”

Jeeny: “And how temporary.”

Host: A soft click echoed from the projection booth. Then — unexpectedly — the screen flickered to life. It showed no film, no picture — only light. Pure, colorless light filling the theater, bathing both of them in its glow.

Jeeny: “Look at that. Nothing, and everything.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what it’s like — when someone dies. The story ends, but the light stays.”

Jeeny: “And if you sit long enough, you realize it’s enough.”

Host: The sound of the projector’s hum grew steadier, the light now painting them both in silver. The theater — once empty — felt momentarily full again.

Jeeny: “You know, when my dad died, I found one of his old movie tickets in his wallet. He’d written my name on the back. I think he kept it from the first film he took me to.”

Jack: “He kept it because it was the moment you became his favorite audience.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we’re all just waiting for one more show. One more laugh.”

Host: Jack nodded, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack: “And one more discount.”

Jeeny: laughs softly, eyes wet “Exactly.”

Host: The light faded slowly, the hum quieting until only silence remained — the kind of silence that doesn’t ache but lingers like breath after a prayer.

As they stood to leave, the glow of the exit sign illuminated their faces one last time. Outside, the rain had stopped. The streetlights shimmered against puddles, each one reflecting a fragment of light — pieces of something gone, but not lost.

And in that tender quiet, Justin Trudeau’s words seemed to echo softly through the dark,
half elegy, half embrace —

that love doesn’t end when the laughter does,
that memory is the body’s last heartbeat of affection,
and that every small, ridiculous moment we share
becomes the ticket stub of our humanity —
proof that we were here,
and that we mattered,
until, very suddenly,
we weren’t.