Dusk falls. I wait. I wait for that moment of sudden transition, when the fading blue-grey light, tinged by violet, settles into velvety black, like a curtain closing after a show at the theater, swiftly and silently. The curtain sweeps shut earlier and earlier now -- I'd forgotten what night at 5:30 is like. I miss the long, tranquil, deliciously perfect summer evenings, smiling, carefree, stargazing, my back flat against a quilt, and hands stretched behind my head. But summer is behind us now; we only have next year to look forward to. Thank goodness seasons shift and we're not left to the same thing month after month -- I crave change.
My mind flits back to the present. I'm sitting in my chair at my desk, the window on my left prominently displaying the quiet beauty of a cloudy November sunset. Save for the lone lamp casting a wreath of golden glow, the room is dark. The trees are nothing by gnarled, twisted silhouettes jutting out against the sky, slightly ominous in the pale light. An airplane flies by, just a blip on the horizon, its lights twinkling. It's darker each time I glance from paper to window. And so another day ends. Another twenty-four hours that have slipped into night, which will eventually fade into the dawn of tomorrow.
But though I lament the fact that time passes by far too quickly, in the first sleepy moments of consciousness the next morning, I am filled with joy and excitement that I am blessed with another day to fill. I am grateful for new days and November sunsets.
And now, the curtain is almost closed, the transition about to happen. I shouldn't miss it.