About a month before my Dad died, we were watching the sunset from my parents’ back deck. Golden skies melted over fields of spring wheat, their ten acres disappearing in rolling hills down to the darkening trees. With the last of the warm light on our faces, he said to me …
I found this again recently, and it sent a dagger of breathlessness through me. He was so right. He *is* so right. We don’t know the hour of our departure. If we did, wouldn’t that make every sunset worth soaking up? If you agree, maybe you’d like to share this.
Tell people what we’re doing here. We’re soaking up the beauty and glory for the dark times.
I didn’t go blonde, but I did eventually start writing this story, and I capped it with an ending I think he would be proud of.
A little beauty, a little magic, a little glory.