Take a picture of the sun dropping down and burning the cloud bottom with starshine fire. Orange and amber blazing in furious beauty whether you watch or not, but tonight you decided to leave the house for tacos so you saw it and it burned a hole in your heart. It’s just a sunset. Take a picture. You’ll remember it.
And why will you remember it? Why will you bottle up meaning and squeeze it tighter, as if you could stop the sand of life from falling through the bottom of your palm? Because you know everlasting things don’t have the monopoly on meaning. A pregnant womb; a crawling child; a tree in spring—these leave as fast as the come yet their meaning pulsates through the galaxy of the heart forever.
So take a picture and put it in a box and forget it so your kids will find it 2 months after they bury you and feel the same wave that shot through you that night when you clicked the shutter. You bottled it up by instinct, mostly for you, but now it’s for them. They’ll see it and know the beauty you saw wasn’t in vain. Then they’ll throw the picture away because you can’t keep everything.
When that picture degrades in the landfill and the memory of that sunset goes back into the earth, perhaps the universe will notice that you appreciated that night and did your part to expose the lie that meaning is only real when it lasts forever.