I saw Fast Times at Ridgemont High with my mom.
Yes, with my mom.
I was 10, she was progressive.
Sharing popcorn with real butter and a box of snowcaps.
Only scared by her reaction when I asked what a “prick” was
and the moment I realized that I’d never look like Phoebe Cates.

Hundreds of movies and memories later…
Dune where a boy squeezed my knee and I freaked out, leaving the theater and a very confused boy sitting in the back row.
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in Santa Barbara’s Mission theater, with blood red velvet curtains and balcony seating.
Forrest Gump, a first date with my ex-husband and his best friend, their liquor bottle rolling down the aisle during Jenny’s death scene —(yes, should have been a red flag).
Titanic tears that flowed in the theater and for days after.
Eat Pray Love full of life and fashion lessons; wearing aviators ever since and wishing I could eat pizza with Julia Roberts’ sense of abandon.
And The Dark Knight Rises, a movie I have never seen, nor care to, but the movie that changed how I see movies.

Opening night, a crazed man with orange hair
fires 76 shots into the packed theater.
12 babies, brothers, sisters, mothers, friends gone.
Another seventy injured,
living a wounded legacy.
Quadriplegic. Miscarriages. Brain damage. Feeding tubes.

My sacrifice – naivety.
My burden – mental vigilance as I check exits
and envision shielding my daughter with my body,
crawling across the popcorn crusted floor.
An American pastime changed forever,
along with the artificial popcorn “butter” flavoring.