It's the kind of day where the sky seems to be leaking. The drops slip and slide across my windshield as I make my way to the movie theater. I go inside, buy a ticket, and settle into a seat just as the previews end.

I like going to the movies by myself. I like to be completely consumed by the experience. I don't want to see the blue light of a phone as the person next to me texts. I don't want someone elbowing me and asking, "So why is that guy going there instead of there?" Or, "Is George Clooney the guy named Joe or the guy named Jack?"

Is the movie supposed to be a dream? A dream within a dream? A dream within a dream within a paradox within an enigma? Don't tell me. I want to figure it out on my own.

When I'm at the movies alone I never have to worry about anything. It's just me in the dark with the big screen holding my hand and transporting me. It's taking me out of my own life and my own headspace.

Lately I feel a tremendous need to do this.

The evening I drive to the theater with the rain falling on my car I know I'm close to receiving bad news. I don't know exactly when it's coming, but it's coming. I can't face the possibility of it, but I can't get it out of my mind, either. It's like seeing something out of the corner of your eye.

Two days later it arrives.

I learn that my boss, Paul Sturgess, has passed away from ALS. It's a terrible loss. He's a leader at work and also in the community. He contributes generously to shoreline charities and works with local youth. He's the kind of person people should strive to be, and the world has to be worse off for his having left it.

He's too kind, too young to be gone. It's much too soon. Ridiculously soon, if God doesn't mind my saying so. And if He does, well we're even because I'm not too pleased with Him right now, either.

My brain is like a mass of green Jello, sitting on a table wobbling but not of much use. I go to work and try to focus with little success. I keep thinking about Paul's family. If I'm this much of a mess, how must they be? I go home after work and watch movies. The movies allow my Jello brain to stop trying to function.

The morning of the funeral service arrives and the sky opens up again with fat drops that hang off of trees and cling to my coat. It's like the sky knows.

My mom calls to tell me to come to her house when the service is over.

"We'll have dinner and then we can do whatever you want," she tells me.

"I just want to want to watch a movie," I say.

It's late when I pull into her driveway, so I go straight up to bed after a hello and a hug. I drop off to sleep immediately for the first time in ages. There's still something, no matter how old I get, about being around my mom and in her house that calms me. I try to dream of that movie I saw in the theater. I sleep so deeply I'm not sure if I do or not.

The next afternoon Mom and I hunker on her couch and watch a movie I haven't seen yet. This time it feels good to be watching with someone rather than watching in a dark theater alone. I'm warm under a blanket and neither of us says much.

The sadness of the previous week doesn't melt away just because I'm watching a movie. It can't. But for those two hours, my nerves have slowed their high-pitched hum and my Jello brain doesn't need to focus on anything important. And that, for those two hours at least, is enough.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com.