November 1, 20–

“But papa,” Adam cries, a fragile awareness of betrayal growing behind his innocent eyes, “I do not understand.”

He has been through so much, my little soul, my bright one, but it is in this moment that I, for the first time, fear that the accumulated shocks of our desperate state shall prove too much for him.

We have been here for hours, he and I, sitting in our Fit, in a line of refugees that covers Parsons Boulevard from Hoover Avenue to the service road of the Grand Central Parkway.  All seek but one thing: the perfect liberty that only a full tank of petroleum may provide. The Mobil Station is our Canterbury, and it is on this line, while trading stories and gossip, that we first heard the news.

I did not wish him to hear the words that have shaken him so profoundly; indeed, what would I not give to strike them and the horrors of which they speak forever from my mind?  But the damage is done — and what now can I do but provide, if not comfort (for where should such a thing be found?), at least a measure of understanding.

“Some things are not for us to understand, my love.  We must accept what the Creator wishes for us, and pray for wisdom by and by.”

He fixes me then with a look that would shatter the most adamantine heart.  “But is there nothing we can do? “  And here his voice breaks and the words surf forth on a surge of tears, “and how shall we tell mama?”

“We shall tell her the truth.  There is to be a new trilogy.”

“But there is already a new trilogy.”

“That is the old new trilogy.”

His brow furrows.   “Though it takes place before the first trilogy.”

“We may call that the old, old trilogy, my love, though it is, I admit, chronologically more recent.”

“Relatively speaking, though, Papa, for it all takes place a long time ago.”

“Indeed.  Though the new, new trilogy will take place slightly less long ago.”

“Unless it is an entirely new trilogy that takes place during the period of the Old Republic…”   As if from some distant ice planet, I hear the frozen rivers of his mind begin to thaw and flow, and his words gain speed and vigor, “which would leave the old trilogy’s narrative arc concluded to popular satisfaction, while paving the way for a new slate of projects to be developed across a wide swath of new media!”

And even with the terrible news still ringing in my ears, my heart thrills, and pride wells where before there had been only despair.  “Aye, my son,” I shout, sweeping him up into my embrace ( a tricky maneuver, as we are both wearing safety belts.)  “And with so many thousands of years between the Old Republic and the new old new old trilogy, what glorious stories may yet be told!  The reorganization of the Senate during the Rusaan Reformation!  The slaughter of the gluurgs at the sacking of Ord Sancture! The Great Galactic War emergency defense prioritization session during the Outer Rim Onslaught!”

“Also,” adds my son, “Carrie Fisher is fat.”

“Yes, my sweet one.  She is very fat.”

“She could not fit into her bikini.  They would have to make a new one.”

And as this thought settles into our minds, we hear a great thrumming, for the Mobil station has opened a new pump, and the refugees shift gears as one from park to drive.  Slowly we begin moving forward; slowly, slowly, I sense my own strength growing, buoyed up by the joyful resilience of this, my son, my guardian angel.   I feel—a new hope.