The color of the sun is everywhere, making its slow descent. Yellow, gold, orange, pink, glowing light- every shade of the passing day.
The light transforms everything into beauty- the spaces in between the leaves on the trees, the shaft of light stretching along the kitchen floor, a glow illuminating the bowl of yesterday’s tomatoes. And your eyes, illuminated- the iris a small dot in the middle of the color of your very soul. Just below, the tips of your beard hairs glow red.
We are sitting in the living room with our books when the sun decides, hey, I’m tired. And she promptly dons her PJs- today they are a resplendent pink and gold with rhinestones. Just before the sun lays its head on the pillow, she sweeps a purple dressing gown over her shoulders while she brushes her teeth. Finally, she crawls beneath a navy blue coverlet, the deepest and richest of satins. And then, she slips so far down in her mound of blankets that you cannot see her any longer. She has truly retired for the day.
As we eat our dinner and see the light change, we revel in this transition of the sun. The changing in the color of the sky as she heads to bed. Everything looks better in the twilight, the sky still glowing lilac and pink, making the now-pastel water outside our door glisten and our bellies rumble in resounding happiness.
You take your banjo out onto the porch and I take my notebook and tapping foot. Sun pulls the covers over her head and we now look at each other by the light of the blinking stars. Your melody rings in the night and we hold hands for stability, afraid of being washed away by the sea. By the light of the moonshine and blackest of skies, only one can see the other clearly. But we hold on anyway, and as the sun sleeps, we know the other is there to hold through the night.