The nights are the hardest. Sounds like a country western song.

Watching the sun set in a fabulous sky is my luxury – 5th floor condo facing west over city, water and mountains. A very mundane view of the city, but the sky is the star of this show.

Tonight I think of all the people for whom this sunset will be the last. Someday, some sunset will be my last. Makes this one drive straight into my heart.

I wonder about having someone to share it with – if that will ever happen again, you know, the love and partnership thing. Then I imagine who, if anyone, I would like to have in my home here this evening, and there is none. I want this to myself. Maybe I am one of those people ‘not made for marriage’. I used to hear that and think – naw, it’s just an excuse for not being able to figure out how to do relationship well enough to keep it, or the sour grapes of one who couldn’t find another one willing. Or someone for whom just no one is ‘good enough’. A sad state, I used to think.

So what is hard about the nights, then? That’s when my heart aches. For the strange miracle of being alive, the transience of it, the complete improbability of my existence – of any existence. That’s when I see the sky, and the light, and the moving clouds, and watch cars below me, going home. That’s when the cello wafts out of the speakers and into my belly. That’s when I ache for the reminder of endings.

Nothing is more transient than music and changing evening light. Music is only possible because our brains remember the moment before this one. How could a melody make any sense? But, I suppose that’s true for everything, isn’t it?

Years ago, when my mother was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease, we stood on a bank overlooking the water of Puget sound, in Washington, watching a sunset. I remember wondering if it was ‘worth it’, since she would not remember it. Strange idea, that it only counted if it was remembered. She did, however, enjoy it very much. She had always loved the beauty of nature – any kind – and treasured the moments when she could luxuriate in it. I don’t think she remembered that sunset, but I do. Mostly I remember holding her hand and feeling the breeze pick up, and guiding her back to the car.

Eventually her last sunset came, but she didn’t see it. I did, though, and the stars that followed. After her last breath I stepped out into the summer stars and sang.

I hope someone will sing for me.

This entry was posted on Sunday, April 6th, 2008 at 7:46 pm and is filed under Deep Thoughts, On Intimacy. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.