The Sun-Monster

My mother has never been seen outside without a hat. 

A large, floppy hat. The kind you witness in french films of the 90’s, where the eyes rarely dare to stray from behind their shadow. And she looks fabulous in them. Her long, brown hair flows downward from under its veil, with streaks of red and blonde catching the light. Just like a child may not recognize her father the first time he shaves, I didn’t recognize my mom the first time she went without a hat. On the verge of tears, I begged her to put it back on and return to normalcy.

Yet she looks perfectly beautiful without a hat. Equally great, in fact. And she knows she does. But the hat is bonded into our family by means of blood. It is a blood-hat, and so she couldn’t take it off if she tried. It is inherited from my grandmother, as akin to a fashion statement as it is a measure of protection against the giant, evil, and looming fire-ball in the sky. The one that shoots rays of heat out of its eyes and melts trash-cans in the summer.

My grandmother has never been seen outside without long-sleeves. Without a large, floppy hat. Without a bottle of sunscreen taking up the limited space in her purse. These are each unique protection measures crafted carefully over generations—like a stake through a vampire’s heart—against the previously mentioned fire-monster. And there is no doubt that they work. At 91, you might think my grandmother is 60. And at 60, you’d think my mom is in her thirties. And so, they look splendid together, arm-in-arm and hat-to-hat, protected from the creepiest, crawliest, and most unimaginable horror you could ever imagine—aging.

Of course, skin cancer is bad too. Nobody wants that. But the prevention of those mutating cells is more like the bow that wraps around the hat, and not the thread that sews it all together.

I want to look like them when I’m older. Or when I’m middle-aged, and finally old. Desperately, in fact. What is life without being young and beautiful? I’m terrified of looking old, of being old, of noticing that a month or so has gone by without the unwelcome, yet secretly flattering comment from a stranger.

So, I curse the fire-monster as well. I carry sunscreen in my backpack. I keep a hat in my car. They say that while the face may lie, you can always tell someone’s age from their hands. So, I’ve purchased SPF gloves that are supposed to blend into the color of my skin, but instead make me appear as if I’ve been in an awful accident, and I’m now stuck wearing bandages because of it. And, not to brag, but my sunscreen is the best of the best – Korean SPF 50+ PA++++, a “light-weight sun fluid for face and body care.” I actually do not know what the pluses mean, but I know that the more there are the better, and I know I have the most.

Despite all this, however, something inside calls to me. Or should I say, something out there does. The sun-monster itself entices me, like a cat showing its belly but with only the intent to pounce, to stare directly into its eyes and to blind myself in all of its glory. And in this blinding, it will reach down below and grab me by my neck, carving a delicate wrinkle into the side of my face. Yet, I can’t look away.

Sometimes in the summer, I forget to put on my sunscreen. Or I accidentally glance at it on the desk in my room, but we both hurriedly look away from each other. Sometimes, my hat forgets itself under piles of homework in my car, or under the tousled clothes of my drawer. Or even sometimes I have them both out next to me, and with my eyes closed, they simply forget the way to my face.

Then, with my mom, my grandmother, and the agent of the fear of impermanence out of reach, I bask in the sun. I welcome its melting. I feel the heat penetrating every singular pore, and my eyelids soon swell, and I know very well that my face is now a bright and distinct shade of pink. Pink like the tips of my fingers when I squeeze just below them. With my eyes still closed, the world is deep orange and red with trickles of dancing shapes. They smile to me in a fuzzy haze. There is no hat casting a dark, blue shadow above. I don’t always like to live in blue. 

Even my hair feels the warmth. It’s hotter than I ever thought hair could be, and I’m once again transported back to summer camp with my best friend Megan, when we felt each other’s heads by the pool-side. Chips in our hands and chlorine crystallizing on our skin, in shock of how hot hair could turn. I’m still convinced on days like these, that at any moment, a fire could burst upon it. 

With the beginnings of a sunburn forming, and a cold rush of water down my throat, there’s no other way to describe this sensation than elation. How could something so awful, feel so great?

This is what life is made for, I think. This is why we are here. 

It must be, because this is why my mom has those streaks of blonde and red in her hair. The only part of her unprotected. And this is why my grandmother’s rice, kimchi, and lettuce always taste so fresh. This is why the break between school, the time I think we grow the most, lands in the hottest time of the year.

The sun-monster.

Our foe and our friend.

I know that you will carve my wrinkles. I know that I’ll never look quite as good as my mom, or my grandmother, at 60 and 91. That there will come a day when the compliments fade and the eye of the beholder is beheld by but a few. 

But someday, regardless, I’m going to die.

And in the meantime,

I’d like to experience warmth,

That takes me back to Megan by the poolside,

Our hands on our heads,

And dancing shapes in our eyes,

I’d like to think that maybe,

Sometimes,

The monster in the sky and I

Can be friends.