The funny thing about missing someone is that the sadness creeps in when you least expect it.

Last night I scoured the iTunes rentals for a fun Sunday night movie. On the hunt for a cheesy rom-com, as always. I love a good preview, so even after finding a few promising candidates, I continued to browse. About ten seconds into the preview for Salt I found myself tearing up. What is wrong with me? I thought. The Chris Farley documentary certainly, and rightfully, had tugged at the heart strings. But, an action film with some appalling rotten tomato score?

“We have to rent this,” I told my husband. “This is exactly what I want to watch tonight.”

My mom loved action films. And, that affection has definitely been passed down to me. Car chases can feel a little snoozy to me but otherwise, I am all in. I love the good guys beating the bad guys. I love a really well-delivered, cheesy one-liner. I love the exceptionally planned, choreographed fight scenes. The cinematography, the beautiful women, the exotic locations. I love the way vengeance is always a huge part of the plot line and how there’s always some super messed up character who’s flaws both get them into trouble but also, inevitably, help get them out of it.

I love the predictable arc, the (mostly) bad acting, the explosions and the being on the edge of my seat. I love the plot twists and the inevitable happy ending. I’m telling you, action films are really the best genre out there. They’ve got it all: mystery, romance, adventure. You cry, you laugh, you can experience every emotion in the course of two hours.

My mom and I used to stay up late watching Lethal Weapon, Die Hard and Beverly Hills Cop over and over again. The originals and all subsequent sequels. We’d re-watch all the Bond films and the variety of actors who played him over the course of the decades. Speed, Terminator, Total Recall, Enemy of the State, Bad Boys, Air Force One…she’d have loved the Bourne trilogy. Oh man, that would have been really fun to watch with her.

I don’t quite understand what it was that drew my uber-intelligent, sophisticated mom to the genre. Perhaps it was for all the same reasons I like it. Whatever the case, it was our special thing. Something we could do and enjoy together. Just the two of us.

Four of us girls had rooms in an upstairs space originally designed to be my father’s art studio. It had once been a giant, cavernous hall. When they built an entire barn (complete with a recording studio, library, three offices and a bright, open-plan painting space) to house my dad and his many obsessions, he graciously gave up his indoor studio so that five of us could move out of one room. The floor was divided into four tiny, strangely angular but glorious abodes. We got to choose which room we wanted based on age. I had third pick. I chose the “triangle room.” There was only one right angle in the entire space. And, it was full of small, unusable corners. It was amazing and I loved every inch of it.

There was a little lounge area — a living room of sorts — at the top of the stairs. It was probably about a 4×8 foot space. We’d squeeze in there, mom and I, squished up against each other on a beanbag on the floor, staring up at our small television screen perched (rather precariously) at the edge of the stairwell. There weren’t a lot of shared spaces amongst the kids and adults. This was a modest, carved-out space where we could just be. Together. Away from the chaos.

Inevitably, she would get called down for one reason or another throughout the course of the movie. Often, she would get into trouble because they couldn’t find her and no one thought to look up in the kids’ area until it was too late — dad had already lost his temper. She needed to (immediately) call so and so back about a painting sale, check the status of a bank account with her name on it, write a letter to my grandmother explaining why we needed more money, reach out to the local shops regarding donations, cold call the celebrity names (and numbers) we’d finagled out of a friend…there was always something that she needed to handle. Something only she could do. For whatever reason. And, someone was always in a rampage about it.

She would obediently head downstairs to put out the fire. Then, she’d sneak back upstairs, knock on my door and say, “Wanna watch a movie?” We’d put on a film — knowing she’d be called away half a dozen more times before the credits were rolling — and lay back, me eating a bowl of buttery popcorn and pretending, the both of us, that we were some normal family.