A.I. | I Am Real, But My Love Is Not

David: Is it a game?

Monica: Now, I’m gonna read some words, and, uh, they won’t make any sense, but I want you to listen to them anyway. And . . . look at me all the time. Can you do that?

David: Yes, Monica.

Monica: Can you feel my hand on the back of your neck?

David: Yes.

Monica: Does any of this hurt?

David: No.

Monica: Okay. Now. Look at me? Ready? “Cirrus. Socrates. Particle. Decibel. Hurricane. Dolphin. Tulip. Monica. David. Monica.” All right . . . I wonder if I did that right. I don’t…

David: …what were those words for, Mommy?

Monica: What did you call me?

David: Mommy.

Monica: Who am I, David?

David: You are my Mommy.

– from A.I., written and directed by Steven Spielberg

It’s not a great movie, I know. But there’s something there (in the early scenes, at least) that catches at my emotions and keeps me on the hook long after the story deserves.

I think it’s this scene that does it. The moment of imprint between the mother and the son. I feel it resonate through me, or the two versions of me: I am The Little Boy with a mommy and The Grown Up with a little boy all at the same time.

But there’s more to it than the basics of family. The scene is an encapsulation of how we love, of how we learn to love: Someone lays their hand on the back of our neck, they say a few words and our whole world shifts. It’s that simple.

It’ll never be the same again.

We’ll never be the same again.

A brief moment of contact, seven words spoken.

It’s what we do, it’s what’s done to us.

Over and over again.

We’re made for it.