My sandbox memorial to Han Solo

I just read in ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY that it's been 30 years since THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK was released. My Dad took me to see THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK--and STAR WARS--in the same summer. Thus was my love of sci fi fused with romance was born, along with at least two consecutive Halloween costumes that involved disappointingly Skywalker-blond braids around my ears and a long white robe.

I remember Dad exclaiming at the the death-defying flights of Luke Skywalker and gripping his hand as I watched Darth Vader and Luke battle it out. But what really spoke to me, even at the tender age of six? Leia and Han Solo. I rooted for them from the first spat. If I couldn't have Han--and since he'd been alive long, long ago in a universe far, far way I knew that was unlikely--then Leia had to have him.

Call me a romantic. Call me a girly-girl. I don't care. The best part of STAR WARS is Han and Leia, and their romance will forever inspire me.

When Han met his frozen end (or so I thought) in EMPIRE STRIKES BACK, I was beyond devastated. My father tried to reassure me that he'd be back. When that didn't work, he reminded me that it was all make-believe. I wasn't having it. At some point I got some Star Wars toys, but one didn't stay in the house long. I took my toy Han Solo (one of those original model ones with the strange thin faces and wrinkles molded into the dolls' clothes) into the backyard. There I slowly, mournfully, buried him in the sandbox (feet first, of course). I grieved, just as Leia would.

And I never unearthed him.

I've heard complaints that CANDOR is "a romance disguised as sci-fi", and you know what? Blame--or thank--George Lucas. He taught me that no story, not even one with spaceships or brainwashing, is complete without love. Difficult, tragic, neverending love.

Han, I'll watch you again soon. But I might have to leave the room when... that PART... comes.