The Sunsets

{Millie and Sky on a walk last year}

I missed the sunset again.

I've missed so many lately. I've missed a few because I've been too tired to remember to pull back my bedroom blinds and survey the neighborhood from our second story window, noting the way the silver clouds brush over rooftops. Some were missed because this recovery time after birth has had its many ups and downs, including a trip to the emergency room late the other night. Some weren't seen because it seems every ounce of time and energy has been spent reining in Millie's especially...wild...behavior since Walter's been home, a challenge that leaves me bone tired and worn down.

And yet, some of those sunsets weren't seen because they were spent at the dinner table; friends who knew I wasn't feeling well brought us meals, one of the sweetest and most humbling gifts I've ever been given. Some were missed because Sky and I felt we needed to postpone Walter's visiting hours for a little while, and spend time as a household of four- one that may be messier and busier than a household of three, but one that is beautiful in a new way. And a very few were missed because it was just Sky and I together, holding hands in a dim room, catching up on TV shows that make us laugh and help the daily stresses fade a bit.

I know I missed a beautiful one tonight because people were clicking their cameras and posting the photos online, struggling to capture something that will never really be able to be pinned down or bottled. But what I'm trying to remember is that everything has a season. Even sunsets do. And seasons come and go, shift or blend from old to new, and are constantly in motion. They don't last, and really, we wouldn't want them to anyway. At least, not most of them.

Maybe this season in my life isn't for sunsets. Maybe it's for sunrises instead, piles of unfolded laundry in heaping baskets, spit-up on my shoulder, and two small people who depend on me. Maybe it's for a husband who looks as bleary-eyed as I do these days, for extra cups of coffee with real cream, for learning how to be gracious and accept help when it's offered, and for a little extra time in pajamas and messy, looped up buns. Maybe it's for imperfection, even in this heart of mine that often has trouble being content with anything less than perfect.

The sunsets will always be there, whether I am their witness or not. Fleeting as they are on any given day, they are still a constant that will wait for me whether it's three days or three months before I'm able to take one in. The promise of one is good enough for now. These days will pass, and so very, very quickly. Faster, even, than the last few rays of daylight shimmer away into the night.