I remember this film, this scene, so clearly. I saw this in the theater when it was released and I sobbed and laughed and felt good at the end, even though I had been and still was sad. Littlefoot's mommy died but he found more family, eventually. It didn't make the loss of his mother not hurt but he made peace with it and could bear it better because he made real friends who became real family. Do-or-die RIDE-OR-DIES. When my mom and I walked home from the theater, about a mile or so through our part of Brooklyn, I was very quiet. I had a lot to think about and my mom let me. And even though thinking about losing MY mommy still terrifies the shit out of me, since that night, when I think about it (VERY often, as I get older) I also think about carrying her with me in things I say and do, and some of the ways I'll be, even when I'M in my 70s. I don't believe in life/a perpetuated consciousness after death and I'm not sure I ever have. I don't even wish it was true anymore nor do I even want to believe anymore. And I'll in all likelihood never raise children. But I'll do my best to carry my mother with me in the best ways I can. If the examples I live--even just one--go on to inspire or even nudge others to do something helpful and better-intentioned, in their turn ... to pay it forward, then that's her legacy carried on. My grandmother's legacy carried on. The legacy of my grandmother's mother, who died very young, carried on. They'll live forever through their actions and mine, just as I will through my own and someone else's. The great circle of life, I guess. Well-before The Lion King did its appropriating bullshit-ery.
I tend to equate emotional comfort explicitly given with flat-out lies and delusions accepted. But ... not what Rooter said. Rooter's the real deal, spittin' wisdom and facts. His take on life and death is one of few versions of comfort I trust by instinct and on further examination. Even the absurdist in me gives a Sisyphean half-smile at Rooter's words, and nods. And keeps pushing that boulder uphill.
Even just these stills shown above make me eight years old again, and really, truly beginning to reckon with death for the first time in a sticky, crowded Brooklyn movie theater. In a way, I never left that theater and showing--I am still, in many ways, reckoning with death, and life, in terms that I learned and that have been shaped by this film.
Fuck you, Don Bluth, for helping me learn empathy and person-ing better. Nobody asked you to do that <3