One Hundred Sunsets

I want to watch one hundred sunsets
before I die.

Not with furtive glances
of borrowed time,
over my shoulder,
over life’s din.

But sunsets – long and slow,
with sand slipping through my toes,
with waves crashing in my ears,
with breaths of salty air.

Sunsets
of melted light,
of colors intertwined,
of lingering glory,
in the sky.

Sunsets that take time,
that take patience,
that take us away,
to a memory.

Memories weren’t made
for serenity,
for beauty,
sunsets.

Memories were made
to survive,
to fear,
shock.

Memories of
a president lying dead,
a princess in a wrecked car,
a shuttle that never came home,
two towers.

Memories, horrible memories,
stay with us,
stick to us,
sear us,
in one scorching instant.

But sunsets
need time to absorb us,
need patience to heal us,
need room to reach us,
to be remembered.

I want to watch one hundred sunsets
to replace the ugly, with beauty,
to know the glory, not cruelty,
to feel the light, and purity,
to remember.

I want to watch one hundred sunsets
before my own.

— Eric Winger