When the sun sets, and it will, how will I greet the darkness? It is the case I relish the brightness, dwelling in it as much as I can. Though I spend my days making shadows, there will be hardly anything to show for it. Even though I absorbed the sun on my face, it may be too dark to see that I’ve changed color. Light is ephemeral. It is a tricky collection.

There were years when my body was a rubber band. They are gone. I used my knees, my feet, and my calves to travel around the cities I lived in. I had a lighter frame and lots of stuff in my backpack. I still use my body but less exclusively. I am reminded that I am alive by the aches in some of my joints. I’m likely to collect more. Now I sometimes employ machines for transit, leaving a trail of greenhouse gases in my wake. It is considered normal to do so.

There were years when I was acutely aware of every action’s impact on the planet, feeling like my existence was structured towards involuntarily committing harm. I want to belong to society and the people in it; my society pollutes. I still feel this way, though more resigned. A former friend told me their strongest legacy would be found in a landfill, the items and objects they discarded in the course of living their life. Objects meant to serve a temporary purpose take centuries to disappear. We use them anyway. It is considered normal to do so.

There were years when I felt like I was creating a foundation for a building that I wanted, uncertain if it would stand, and mostly guessing that I would still want it when I had it. Like I was traveling on a road whose destination was rumored, but not guaranteed. My decisions created the structure of my life. I exist in the consequences of my actions. I have many of the things I worked to create, though not all. It does not always work favorably; I got lucky.

There were years. They are gone. It’s almost certain that our memories recorded them differently. If two people can view a video and walk away with divergent interpretation of its events, the real world did not stand a chance of consistency. What is true? We hold our own recollections tightly. It is considered normal to do so.

There were years. They are gone. I collected them anyway, relishing their gifts of experience and calm. I collected them, as they are a prized treasure. People sometimes take me as someone without them, the way wealthy people are not recognized if they don’t present themselves in the manners expected. I am the recipient of surprise that at least one of my children is a teenager, that my romantic relationship spans plural decades, and that the count of my years is firmly middle-aged. I suppose, in some cases, it’s a compliment. And yet. I cannot think of a more precious gift I’ve received than the entirety of my life. It is an interesting experience that I am not always readily recognized as someone who has lived it. Life is most real to the person living it.

When the sun sets, and it will, how will I greet the darkness? I do not know. The horizon is always in the distance. This is a phase of life where I stare towards it, noticing its approaching proximity, not yet completely tangible but feeling its becoming dangerously accessible to touch.