TAU8370Some days the sun sort of putters out, like she runs out of gas. She doesn’t fade; she just kind of . . . stops.

And some days the sun lingers, scraping her bloody finger nails across the tilting sky. She has to be dragged away.

Other days, I couldn’t tell you what the sun is up to. I don’t care about her. I am uninterested in her emotional emptiness, or in her grieving agony. Because, sometimes, I’ve got my own stuff.

Like yesterday. I spent all day cleaning out the cars so that they could look presentable for the Carmax appraiser (I only clean if I have someone to impress; my wife doesn’t count). Then I lost all of our money in the Internet (who knew online transfers between bank accounts could take three days and not count the weekend?), so I productively gave in to anxious ruminations about that for awhile. Then it was time to pick Amanda up from the DART station (free advice: if your spouse is a hospital nurse, by him/her food on the way home from the 12 14 hour shift). Then, you know, DINNER coupled with the latest episode of 24. And, of course, bed.

So, I really wasn’t feeling artistic yesterday. Or lots of days. Like, I just do not care about Nature’s rhythms or their metaphorical significance all of the time.

But then, inexplicably, I do care. Like today. Driving home from dinner with family in a north Dallas suburb, and I notice the setting sun. She is having one of her glorious moments, flinging her deep reds across a deep blue canvas above the racing city. And I just shut-up. And watch. And murmur a hymn.

And, everything, all the things, all the meanings, click in an instant. A single pattern of existence. The tears of completeness roll down my cheeks.

My heart is steadfast.