Gregory Peck, cardigans, and the warmth of misremembered things.

I’m allowing myself a few minutes of distraction from work and flipping through the TV for ambiance. I’ve landed on The Omen (1976). The lighting and pacing are slow and deliberate, an homage to a time when silence could hold a scene.

Ah, Gregory Peck in the mid-’70s. Greying sideburns, fisherman sweater, wide-collared shirt, and Italian horn-rimmed glasses. He was at his absolute handsomest in that era. There was a steadiness about him, a moral gravity that made a cardigan look noble.

Lee Remick earns style props for her ascot, too. Absolutely no one rocked a pussy bow the way a 70s mama could.

And speaking of 70s mamas: in 2013, four years before her Alzheimer’s diagnosis, Momma called to chat about one of her favorite shows, Dancing With the Stars. She adored it. I was mostly underwhelmed.

“Guess what, Karen?” she said, voice scaling an octave. “Lee Remick and Tony are dancing this season!”

“Lee Remick?

Lee Remick is dancing this season?” I said.

“Hmm. Perhaps I’ll start watching after all.”

photo courtesy of mitchell willem jacob annevelt

No correction from me. I wanted to see it: Lee Remick gliding across the floor in an updated ‘do and impractical shoes. My sweet Atticus in the audience, cardigan pressed and sideburns immaculate, eyes squinting, applauding softly.

Damien: talk to the hand. Not correcting my mom was par for the greater course. When given a choice, I stayed on the right side of things. Because we all know what happened to Rhoda in The Bad Seed.

My experience? Memories edit themselves. The supporting roles of loved ones often segue into leading performances that sustain us indefinitely, transforming our sense of loss into a rhythmic, comforting dance. An abundance of peace.

And scene.