Memories are a curious thing. I like to think we were given them so that we might have daffodils in December, snowflakes in August. Presence amongst absence — a quality specific only to memory. I am reminded of this often, especially in light's slow retraction: sunset. The other night, I was disappointed to realize I'd just missed the sun's final rays. And yet I found myself with the strange urge to remain. So, with little expectation and no real reason I could yet comprehend, I stayed — watching the remnants of color hover over the water. Very quickly, I realized how misplaced my disappointment was. The afterglow was more strikingly brilliant than the sunset itself. All heat was gone, and yet the color only grew richer. Heat is like reality. Immediate, demanding, physical — something present, something we can feel and experience. Color, in comparison, is more contemplative, like a memory. This is especially apparent in the afterglow. Something that has technically passed still produces meaning — more, even, than the original event. What makes this truth so impactful to me is rooted in my own philosophy. I see mercy like light — dimensional, shimmering, fundamental to life. So in this way, I'm reminded that mercy, too, has an afterglow. Just because I cannot see the sun does not mean it has vanished. Its impact never truly ceases — it lingers over the waters of memory. Now I understand why I stayed that night — why I "wasted" a half hour on something seemingly useless. It was not a waste, but a moment of deep contemplation. Afterglow reflects my gratitude to that gentle voice inside that asked me to stay. It gave me a chance to reflect on mercy — to realize its color is never gone. It's only deepening. Becoming fuller in its own afterglow.
