You don’t know me, but I know of you. I think we met around the age of 4 or 5 when you swept into my heart right about the same time you did Aladdin’s. Shortly after you gave me life advice through the wise woman of Mrs. Doubtfire. Her spunk and wittiness gave me the sense of wonder and even acceptance, that my somewhat over-rambunctious personality wasn’t too far from out of the ordinary.
All of these made an impact on my heart, but not as much as the most recent time I watched Mrs. Doubtfire two months ago. I was babysitting and it was late after the kids had gone to bed, and I was enjoying vegging from the freedom of the last spoken words of the parents,”help yourself.” I sat down and turned on the TV and much to my delight, there you were. It was the middle of the movie, so I sat and tuned in.
As it came to the end, I somehow had forgotten the last monologue that you read to little Katie. As you read it, in that sweet oh so soothing voice, tears filled my eyes. You see, my parents had recently gotten a divorce. At age 25 I am crying, on a sofa (not even mine may I add), and a script that you read and was specifically chosen for, helped heal my heart. It wasn’t the last time I cried, and it wasn’t the healing that mended every wound – but you know what, it was a start.
I really wish I could have told you that story yesterday, or last week, or even as soon as it happened. I really wish that before you saw hopelessness, you could have seen the hope you gave me. I really wish that before you felt empty, you could have seen how full of life and laughter you gave to so many. I really wish you could have seen all the many many peers of mine that will forever remember your movies. These movies. The movies will not be remembered because of the edits, the great cinematography, or even the other actors and actresses. No, these movies were made movies that we will cherish forever because of, you.
Mr. Williams, I know you will never read these words written out just for you, but what I do pray is that somehow, someway over the next year you hear the many, many condolences, speeches, and prayers that will be lifted up in your honor.
Finally, I saw farewell. I say thank you. Thank you for reading a script over 20 years ago that helped start a healing process for a 25 year old woman sitting on a couch in Texas. May your name be forever carried as one of joy, laughter, and love.
“But if there’s love dear, those are the ties that bind. And you’ll have a family in your heart forever…
All my love to you poppet, you’re going to be alright…bye bye.”
All my love to you, Mr. Williams. You’re going to be alright.