I forget the word.

It’s the 13th of June and we’re having trouble deciding on a film to watch.

So I ask you to say a word,

and I’ll match it with a movie.

An exercise existing somewhere in-between a Rorschach Test and Walter Benjamin.

I forget the word,

but we watch Y tu mamá también.

I cry, a lot.

The wandering camera, our not-quite-omniscient narrator who doesn’t quite narrate, and the
impending sense of change and loss.

I am thinking that one day it will not be the 13th of June, and things will have changed.

I am watching the movie and witnessing the loss of youth, friendship, and love.

All because of a word.

It’s been six months, and I’ve watched Y tu mamá también two more times.

The second viewing, or the first after that first time, occurred on the day of our first breakup.

This time, I cry even more.

The quiet death of a day laborer due to the ignorance of Mexico City’s architects.

The crosses on the side of the road, revealed to me by the wandering camera but unbeknownst to
our protagonists.

Luisa’s ability to conceal her cancer from our fallible narrator.

The sadness of considering the number of hidden lives.

A return to the countryside, on the eve of the World Trade Organization Ministerial Conference.

All because of a word.

It’s December now.

It’s cold, but today isn’t as cold as I expected.

We’ve gotten back together and have broken up for a second time since my second (or: first after
the first) viewing.

This time I watch Y tu mamá también in public, at the Film Forum.

Before the movie starts, I hear a couple behind me discussing what the title means.

They are wrong.

It’s a mostly white and old audience.

A mostly white and old audience who lose out on the cultural subtext and the intricacy of
Spanish.

A mostly white and old audience who laugh at the oddest times.

This probably stems from a forgetfulness of what it was like to be young, idiotic, and curious.

I cry, but not as much as this time.

Yet, I do notice something new this time around.

Have you seen the movie?

Ah well, regardless, I don’t know how consequential my mediation of a moment is.

Towards the end of the movie, everyone now very drunk and honest and cheery, Luisa walks to a
jukebox and says to the boys, “Oye, dime un numero y una letra.”

Give me a number and a letter.

One says “13.”

The other says “B.”

“B-13.”

Cue: Marco Antonio Solís’ “Si No Te Hubieras Ido.”

As the song begins to play, Luisa turns around and begins to dance.

She stares at our wandering camera, slowly approaching it with a knowing smile.

The wandering camera begins to back up, afraid of what knowledge Luisa carries.

Her dance is a cascade of departures.

All because of a number and a letter.

I forget the word.

The word had to be said for us to watch this movie.

The word had to be said for me to watch it alone, twice.

The word awaits us somewhere, on two separate soils.

I forget the word, but we don’t forget forever.