When I think of Star Wars, I travel back in time.
I’m munching on popcorn and sipping a slushy, scared for Han while watching The Empire Strikes Back during its re-release at the theaters in the ’90s. I’m snuggling with my aunt’s stuffed Ewok, an ’80s original, while falling asleep at my grandparents’ house in San Antonio. I’m opening Star Wars toys from Burger King, a plastic R2D2 with a tiny Leia hiding inside.
I’m smiling as my Mom, Dad, and sister open the matching Star Wars t-shirts I got them for Christmas. I’m tearing up as the opening text crawl begins during The Force Awakens, one of the last movies I’d see with my Mom. I’m crying for Rey as she searches for the truth, for who she really is, for the people we’ve lost, real and fictional.
I’m posing on speeder bikes at MGM Studios, and it never gets old, year after year. I’m in The Rise of the Resistance, gasping at rows of storm troopers, at the details of the experience. I’m on Star Tours, flying and bumping through space. I’m laughing as I realize that I’m the rebel spy!
I’m on the couch, transported, just a kid again, watching A New Hope on VHS with my Dad for the first time.