when i die, i will become a sunset.
i know some people say their loved ones live on in sunrises, those early morning miracles that start your day with grace. but that will not be me. i will paint a sunset - hushed and streaky and moody. it will be soft and complex at the same time. it will somehow be more beautiful than you expect it to be but also not as good as what you imagine. it will welcome my loved ones home at the end of their days, or watch for them as night takes the place of day. no matter where they are: on a rooftop, in their car, sitting in an office in some high rise, or at home in a kitchen with a small window - i will come in to take a peek. when they are tired and weary, the tendrils of my fading sunset will reach out like a soft hand on your shoulder, soft strokes with no aim other than to sooth.
and eventually the deep blues will begin to bleed in. the stars will begin to make themselves apparent, first in small numbers, and then all at once. my sunset will stay just long enough to see them, to greet them, before i must go. before i leave, i will kiss my loved ones on the forehead. i will smile at them like i cannot bring myself to say goodbye, because i can’t. i was strong enough to love but not enough to stay, and that is something i will be be too cowardly to confess in any lifetime. so i will leave it unsaid.
i will leave them with the knowledge that at the end of everyday, short or long, good or bad, memorable or mundane…
there will be a sunset.
