Viggo Mortensen: A Full Heart and an Empty Nest

I have a photo of you at age 3, wearing light-brown cowboy boots, a tan fringe-sleeved jacket and a red cowboy hat with a black yarn stampede string in the parking lot of what was then the main truck stop of Biggs Junction, Oregon. You are running around on a windy winter’s day, rosy-cheeked and laughing, being towed across the broken asphalt by your exuberant new puppy, Brigit. I think she had a red leash then, or was it the green one? My recollection is that your hat blew off right after the picture was taken. We were headed south with your mother, who may have taken the picture I have in mind, and a full load of clothing and household goods, taking Brigit to Los Angeles for the first time.

We sometimes used to pick up chunks of basalt on our trips through that area to use in landscaping our garden, especially the pieces that were crimson-hued from oxidation. I wonder if that is illegal, if the state of Oregon or federal authorities might object to those borrowings. Not being anywhere near the Columbia River at this moment, I am going by recent memory of tangible representations of that time, like those red rocks that now border our roses, and that snapshot of you and Brigit which I cannot find this morning.

Mostly I am guided by abstracted glimpses of our shared past—fallen trees I helped you clamber over, bee stings, skinned knees, your warm tears, dusk-stained clouds reflected in your eyes, your first bicycle ride without training wheels, your first solo swim in the deep-end of a pool. These subjectively retrieved fragments help me feel you near, but I am wary of them keeping me from fully being the person you are with when we are alone together. They are not really us. I am here, and you are gone.

Often, when you asked me to play “Fight,” “Village,” or “Dinosaurs” with your plastic friends, prehistoric creatures, farm animals, and your sticks, strings, stones, blocks, ribbons and rags, I answered: “Wait a minute, just let me finish writing this down… I’m washing the dishes… As soon as I finish this call (see? I’m on the phone?)… Let me just lie down for a minute, I’m tired… Can we do it later?… We just played that, didn’t we?… I’ll read you a story in a while instead…”, and gave any number of fairly reasonable excuses for not dropping whatever I was busy with in order to get down on the floor and join your ephemeral, perfect worlds. Your mother nearly always understood the privilege of your persistent entreaties, and wisely accepted most of them in those early years.

Every time I did go along and allow you to take the lead in eliminating everything outside of those intricately imagined landscapes, I found myself immediately grateful to be included, awed at your intelligence and commitment. Thankfully, I recall your eyes and hands now, the sound of your young voice, your delight at sharing even the simplest game. Although I suppose I must have known that your single-minded enthusiasm for those make-believe sessions would probably dissipate and evolve into other preoccupations, it seemed that there would always be time for them later, in the morning, in some tomorrow. What I did not understand was how irrevocable, how final the transitions would be. There would be no making up for lost time, no use in my pleading, years later: “Let’s do it now; there’s time and I’m ready to play!… You can kill the commander but my other guys are still alive, OK? … I’ll be Godzilla this time, and you can be Mothra… Let’s make a caveman village and have an earthquake…”

Even when you made the transition to “Let’s wrestle, Papi!”, and “Come see the Viking warrior outfit I made!” or “Let’s build an ambush!”, I still occasionally found reasons to turn down your invitations. You continued to create history on your own while I used up time in other rooms. Now I wish I had always joined in; nothing could possibly have been as important as what you had in mind. Over the years we have done many things together, visited all kinds of faraway places to learn a bit about our finite world, but I know I lost far too many chances to share in your singular adventures.

Today you left home as a young man, moving over a threshold and across the country to begin a new life. We will continue to see each other, and I’ll continue to be tempted by distractions from your naturally less-frequent requests to play. Hopefully, though, I’ll remember from now on that our play days are limited, and to make every effort to say “yes” for as long as we have us.