These are my favorite lines in the film, when the older woman at the dinner party talks about her late husband. She says:
Well when I think of Elias, what I miss the most about him is the way he used to lie down next to me at night. Sometimes his arm would stretch along my chest and I couldn't move—I even held my breath—but I felt safe, complete. And I miss the way he was whistling, walking down the street.
Everytime I do something, I think of what he would say—"It's cold today, wear a scarf." But lately, I've been forgetting little things. He's sort of fading, and I'm starting to forget him—and it's like losing him again.
So sometimes I make myself remember every detail of his face—the exact color of his eyes, his lips, his teeth, the texture of his skin, his hair—it was all gone by the time he went.
And sometimes, not always, but sometimes, I can actually see him. It's as if a cloud moves away and there he is—I could almost touch him—but then the real world rushes in and he vanishes again.
For a while I did this every morning, when the sun was not too bright outside. The sun somehow makes him vanish. He appears and disappears like a sunrise, sunset—anything so ephemeral—just like our life.
We appear and we disappear. And we are so important to some, but we are just passing through.