An Autumn Afternoon

Dear old friend,

It is after midnight. All the lights are off in every room. Quiet. Dark. The walls themselves seem at peace. Just finished watching An Autumn Afternoon. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. An Ozu about the bittersweet transience of things. Made me think of you. You told me once not to hold on too tightly. Go lightly, lightly. What is there left to cling to after everyone’s moved on? Becomes inevitable. To think we assumed it’d stay a choice.

An Autumn Afternoon should be viewed late in the evening and preferably not on an empty stomach. They eat and drink the entire way—small sips, constant refills, little bites in-between—and then go onto the next place for more. You’ll want to feel satisfied beforehand. Mindful. A tad bit melancholy. The happiness of being sad, you read out loud to me. In the library. I remember. Tolstoy? Maybe. Someone famous, long gone. We’ll all be long gone eventually. I wonder if you ponder that still. 

There’s one scene near the end that touched me so deeply, it felt unfamiliar—unexplored, even—a secret lock I never knew. Sentimentality and nostalgia grasping hands with getting older, being at ease. I hope you’ve found contentment, and I hope you catch this movie someday. My moment waits for you, too.