From Aftersun (2022), Dir. by Charlotte Wells:
"I think it's nice we share the same sky. [...] Sometimes, at play time, I look up at the sky and if I can see the Sun then.. I think about the fact that we can both see the Sun, so even though we're not actually in the same place and we're not actually together... we kind of are in a way, you know? Like we're both underneath the same sky, so... kind of together."
We're 11 and 33, sitting underneath the glowing peach pit hanging over the orange waves. My small body is sticky from when you slathered sunscreen on me-- the Australian kind that you constantly assured was SPF 40, the best of the kind-- and sand filling between the grooves of our small body. We were small back then, even if you were big and could carry me on your shoulders. Small in different ways that you felt and I couldn't understand.
As I lay on the wet ground, cold waves lapping and enveloping my body, I felt serene in a way I had never before. I looked up at the sky, straight up enough that I didn't get the glare and the squint. I never did because you told me that my eyes would never recover, and I believed it. I could hear sniffling beside me, and I asked if you were okay. You told me you had a cold from the monsoon winds. I wrapped my striped towel around you. You said thanks, and my small hands grazed your stubble and clung onto your lukewarm body as we watched the sun set down below and into the twilight zone.
I think it's nice we share the same sky. The last time we were boundless and under it together-together, is a moment forever enshrined in gold and a moment that I'll cherish forever until I die. You sat there next to me as the charming thinking-man that would pretend to be a statue as I giggled at your mime abilities, the moving castle with the vines that I climbed on top of to see the world, hoisted upon your strong shoulders, and the one I would and will always have a twirl with. That was the person I knew. But how do I reconcile this dream man I knew with the man I didn't?
I was definitely young then. Young enough to not know what was happening, but old enough to notice there was something off. But then again, this was my normal. Your mood swings were enough to throw anyone off kilter, but I didn't think anything of it. I just failed to recognize that this exact moment drenched in this nostalgic glow was a turning point for you. I never saw you again. I wish I had wiped away your tears that I had mistaken for saltwater and you blamed on the wind and had a long, good look at your face before I parted ways with my dad. You.
The pain that I felt was so unfathomable for years that I grew bitter. Bitter at how you left me. So I shut you out. You were in every cloud whenever I looked at the blue, pink, gray, orange sky, so much so that I stopped looking at it. I looked at the sun directly to simply avoid being reminded that we're not under the same sky anymore. I erased every grainy recollection of us at the beach. Up until I had your grandson, I never knew just how challenging it is to shield someone so unknowing and innocent from your wrath of issues. You go through life enough to see everything and instead of regurgitating it out, you hide yourself around everything you gather under the carpet.
Now, I'm 33, the same age you were when you left. It doesn't fade with time. You still live in my daydreams and during my night. But today, as I'm sitting on the same beach we were at when we were my age then and my age now, I look up at the sky. I'm with her and I'm with him, and I look up at the same tangerine hue burned into my scleras the last time I was here. I let your calm and your care wash over me as worries churn at the back of my mind, perhaps the same you had when you were a young parent yourself. I allow myself to dive deep into my memories, rummaging through the adult, college, high school, the ones you didn't get to see me graduate from or party hard through, and I finally grab on to your shirt and we dance. We dance through from my 5th birthday party, we sneak a peek at the scene of you wiping my cheeks as I scrape my knee when I was 7, and we arrive at me wiping away your tears during that fateful golden hour. I never knew you well enough to tell you that life was going to go swimmingly and question your monsoon wind cold, but I know now that you tried your best. You didn't leave because you didn't see responsibility in your life, but it was a last resort for you. You felt like you had no other choice. You'll never know how upset that will make me feel. It ticks like an alarm every morning and it's an itch I can never seem to soothe. I hope you knew during your lifetime that you were loved by every room you walked into, your bright mind and your mellow attitude made people feel like you truly listened. I loved and love you irrevocably. You were the best dad anyone could ever have, even if I was cursed with only having you for a short time of 11 trips around the sun.
I'm sitting here barefoot with my baby wrapped around a threadbare towel, the very same I had wrapped you around when I was 11. We're watching the aftersun, and I close my eyes. The saddest yet most beautiful scene comes on-- your beautiful chuckle emanating from behind, I grab your arm and we jump into the sea together, braving the coldness. We wade farther and farther away together, hand in hand, and we swim off into the sunset.
