Recently I went to a birthday party at a local beach club. Janet and I had been there a few years ago for a community orchestra performance on the lawn along the sea wall.
The orchestra played well, and the sun was going down so the heat wasn’t unbearable. We knew several people there so it was like a picnic with music. As the sun lowered closer to the horizon over the Gulf of Mexico we realized the quandary we were in. The music was beautiful but so was the view. We decided to risk a chance we might be considered boorish and turned our backs to the orchestra to watch the sun go down. We still heard the music and got to see the blues, yellows and pinks where the water met the sky. I don’t think the musicians even noticed.
Since that evening my life has changed. Janet underwent the pain of chemotherapy, double mastectomy and radiation and then died of brain cancer.
At the party I sat with some nice people, and I was enjoying myself when I noticed the sun was going down. I suggested to my table mates that we go outside to witness the sunset. They all agreed it was a good idea, and we headed to the terrace, along with several other people who had the same thought.
There were the blues, yellows and pinks, just like before, and I experienced a sensation I’ve felt many times in the last year and a half. My wife was still with me. Instead of our backs to the orchestra we had our backs to the party, which I don’t think anyone minded.
As the last glimmer of the sun disappeared below the horizon, I smiled and whispered, “This is for you, Janet.”