It’s Oscars Night and I Miss You

by Delaney Robertson ’21

Content warning: family death

For Grandpa Alton

Written in March 2018

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

I remember this day last year. I woke up early to read for class. I ate French toast and read two chapters of Faulkner. I saved my reading for Sunday so that I could talk to you about it. Faulkner was your favorite. Talking to you was mine.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

Today I want to sleep in, but the sun wakes me up early. I roll over and the sun lights up my bookshelf. I spot the Faulkner anthology you gave me last Christmas. I haven’t taken it off the shelf since the day I moved in.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

I smile. We talked for hours about that anthology. You could talk for hours about anything. You could watch eight movies in a row and never get bored.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

I remember the first movie I saw in theatres without you. Wonder. The lights came up when it finished and tears ran down my cheeks. I cried because of the ending and I cried because you weren’t there to see it. I couldn’t tell the tears apart.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

I take note of every movie I see in theatres without you. Star Wars, Black Panther, A Wrinkle in Time. After each one, I hum the music on my way to the parking lot hoping that somewhere you’re humming along too.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

You used to stay until the end of the credits after every movie you saw, and boy, it drove me crazy. Now I can’t seem to leave the theatre until the lights come all the way up. Someone needs to continue your tradition. It feels like the least I can do.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

Wonder wasn’t nominated for Best Picture this year. You wouldn’t have stood for it.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

I never told you this, but I only cared about the Oscars because I got to spend the day with you. I cared more about watching your eyes light up than any Best Supporting Actress toss-up. I sat on the edge of my seat every year just to see you better.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

I never really watched the Oscars. I only ever watched you.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

I finish reading and walk with Mira to grab lunch from Tower. You never saw Tower. I wish you had. Maybe then this place would feel more like home.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

She asks me in front of the lake if I want to go to the Oscars viewing party with her tonight. In Pendleton, she says. I say that I can’t because I always have plans on Oscars Night. I’m going to watch them with my granddad.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

I hear the words come out of my mouth and I swallow. I stop walking and look up at the sky. I’m sorry. I want to apologize to you for forgetting that you’re not here. For just a second, I forgot. I forgot. I’m sorry.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

I try to think of a world where the Oscars air and you don’t watch them and my vision starts to get fuzzy. I wonder if the Academy knows that something is wrong. I wonder if they know that their biggest fan won’t be watching tonight.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

The lump in my throat screams that someone made a mistake. Tonight can’t be Oscars Night because I can’t spend it with you.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

I sit down and watch the world go on without you. My heart breaks for every year that we can’t watch them together. My heart breaks for every year that I know I won’t be able to watch them on my own.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

I remember this night last year. We watched as they walked onstage to announce Best Picture. We shared a blanket and our predictions. I never guessed correctly, but you always did. I held your hand while they opened the envelope and you squeezed mine back when they announced your favorite pick.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

Tonight they’re walking onstage to announce Best Picture and I can’t bring myself to watch. I curl up under the blanket we shared a year ago, in a room that you never got to see. I only know half of the nominations, but I write down my choice on a slip of paper and squeeze it into the palm of my hand.

It’s Oscars Night and I miss you.

The memory of your laughter gets my vote for Best Picture. And for the first time, I know my prediction will win.