jeff shuck

There are many things I want to write, and more things I want to say, and I’m not sure how to begin, or where to end, or what to do in the middle.

I came home tonight to the incredible sight of the sun meeting the water outside of my front door. Everything in my little world was lit up in oranges and blues and pinks. I ran inside to grab my camera, and then ran back across the street to watch. It was so beautiful — solemn, but at the same time hopeful. And I immediately thought of what you said about being content, and I began to realize what you meant.

I started to whisper aloud, “Isn’t this amazing?” But then I realized that you weren’t standing next to me, and you weren’t watching, and that in your world the sun had already set long before.

Lately I find that words are failing me — I string together dozens of sentences to make up for the fact that I cannot think of the right things to say. I know what I feel, but I cannot get it out. So I throw out hundreds of words in the hopes that a few of them will make sense. But volume is not the same thing as meaning, and I end up feeling betrayed by my own voice.

In the evening sky, though, I saw a picture that helps explain what I’ve been trying to convey. Because the point I’m trying to make is, the sunset was solemn because you weren’t here to share it; hopeful because I know I’ll have a chance to see you both again; and beautiful, so beautiful, because it reminded me of you.

I treasure the things that spark those reminders, and today I saw them all around me. In the absence of the real thing, the reminders are a gift you have given, and they mean so much. I treasure the reminders because I treasure you, more than I can describe, and more than I want to admit.

So I’ll stop the admissions and just say, I saw the sun tonight. I asked it to head your way tomorrow morning. I hope you see it, and I hope it makes you smile.