The sun dies its little death on the western horizon; dies and dyes the canopy above in shades of achingly beautiful crimson, violet and gold. These colors, so familiar throughout the days of his life, resonate now with a life all their own. They belong to him alone in all the world, and he is grateful.
Promises of indestructible innocence hold him up when the rain never seems to end. An unmatched strength lies within, and no matter who has need, regardless of how often, that light remains steadfast and unsullied. Childlike wonder reminds him to see everyday miracles, and to marvel. He revels in good food, soft beds, companionable laughter and comfortable silence, taught by unapologetic enthusiasm that these things are precious. Pain cannot quell, nor blood darken the shining in those golden eyes, for which he is profoundly thankful.
When he is tempted to give up, an inexhaustible well of will is at his side to shore him up on the long road. When he flounders, he turns to sober judgment and decisive action to steady him. He is the caretaker, but he does not lead. Only with this to guide him can he continue the journey, the fight, the life. One day he knows it will lead no longer, and he will need to make his own path. He also knows that this will never truly be taken from him, just withdrawn to a distance. Violet is the color of emperors, kings, and his own soul's savior.
There walks beside him also, a tireless fount of optimistically jaded mischief. It flows over onto those around it, a tempest in a teacup, making laughter rise unexpectedly when it seems least probable. It cheats, swindles, and otherwise hoodwinks, with a self-deprecating chuckle and a flash of pure joy. It has a sharp edge, easily missed in the whirlwind it creates around itself. Nothing it ventures is ever half-hearted, and it wants to devour all it sees with a visceral delight that never fails to stun him. Crimson is the color of the blood in his veins, of the heart that beats on with purpose, of the most sincere regard and affection he has ever known.
He watches the final sliver of the sun disappear behind obliging hills, and the darkness washes in behind it. There lies on the wind a scent of something sweet, and he takes it in with wonderment, resolve, and joy. Though the last vestige of day may have disappeared, he can still see those amazing hues splashed across the clouds in the sky. He will see them for a long time to come this night, and when they have followed their creator down below the horizon, he will have memory, and he will have their new shades in the moonlight.
A strong arm drapes across his shoulders, a kiss ghosts across his cheek, a well-known voice asks, "What'cha lookin' at, babe?"
A genuine smile settles upon his lips at these blessings as he replies, ‘Oh, just the sunset."
And he is grateful.