Ten years ago I moved into an industrial loft in Chicago’s Fulton Market District. My unit faced north, and I spent many evenings on my balcony admiring the sunset to my west. That area was an industrial corridor unobstructed by high rises; so the sun fell onto railroad tracks and warehouses and falling-down buildings, bathing them in gold in its wake. I never tired of it.
Eight years ago Earl and I moved together to another loft, only this time it faced east. You would think we would revel in sunrises, but that was not the case. Our unit faced the Chicago River, across from which was a tall office building completely encased in glass. The redeeming factor was that the sun, which actually set behind us, reflected in the glass each evening. So we enjoyed the sunset as much as I had in my previous home.
Now we’re almost six years in this St. Joseph location. And, last night, as I finished watching the night’s fading rays, I thought to myself, “I must be getting complacent, for I don’t plan my evening around sunsets anymore.”
Maybe I’ve come to take them for granted, which isn’t a good thing. A sunset is a wonderful way to finish the day, to gear down, to quit work of all kinds. It’s nature’s version of “Taps.” Having gently chided myself, I plan to sit on our deck more often during the rest of the summer and watch the sun disappear behind the trees that line the river bank behind our house.
Because a decade of sunset memories is hardly enough.
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