This Golden Light

By Jessica Shepherd

I feel as if I am witness to the final days of Eden, standing atop a mountain where daylight still presides while below me, darkness pools.

Outside, the low sun bathes the snowy landscape in a soft peach glow, burnishing the alders in gold. Somewhere between here and town, Hal rides his bike toward home. I imagine him, hands swaddled in pogas, chin tucked into his collar against a headwind, as he maneuvers the snowy berm while rush-hour traffic churns snow into a whiteout. I sent him off with a kiss for good luck, knowing he doesn’t tell me about the near misses.

Unlike Hal, I am not inclined to throw myself into winter’s teeth. Instead, with two feet of snow and bitter cold factoring into everything, I sit before the woodstove, burning chunks of spruce cut from beetle-kill trees behind our cabin. In the kitchen, pumpkin soup simmers, and red salmon fillets thaw in the sink. The dogs, content to be home with me, sleep on the couch, long limbs intertwined. I enjoy winter from the inside looking out. For me, the season is a time for contemplation. Today, I am contemplating impermanence.  

Kachemak Bay Sunset - Photo by Jessica Shepherd

Hal and I are at a good place in our lives, and perceptive enough to know it. These years of robust health and steady companionship are numbered – a reality that is driven home every time we visit a friend battling cancer or send a card of condolence. It’s only a matter of time before Hal and I are the ones with bad news.

And so I worry, thinking of him standing on the peddles to address the final hill before home. Should the bike jerk from his control into an accelerating truck, our lives would be forever altered, shattered even. Is it any wonder I look around at the simple but sweet life we live, knowing today or this week or this year, could be the last we’ll have together? I am deeply attached to our illusion of predictability. The way we laugh together at silly dog antics and spoon at night as we reach for sleep. Knowing all things are temporary, I savor this stretch of calm water while acknowledging the certainty of rapids ahead. 

Then there’s the greater reality of national and international discord. This is an election year for some 50 countries around the globe. The outcomes will determine the fate of democracy for years, perhaps decades, to come. Coupled with cataclysmic climate events, snowballing species loss, mounting nuclear intimidation, and the near certainty of global food insecurity, we are all in the path of a cresting tsunami of impermanence.

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Most of us tend to chronicle our losses and failures, using them like mileposts to measure the distance we have come. Or, like me, we second-guess what’s ahead, as if we could brace against the sharp turns and precipices lying in wait. What if, instead, we chart the finer moments we spend together, like a raft of memories to serve as ballast against the inevitable? With ten years of marriage behind us, Hal and I have built a solid vessel of companionship made from small celebrations, shared bereavements, commitment, and the ongoing endeavor to understand and support one another. Together, we have constructed an ark built of memories. With luck, we’ll continue to grow that ark for years to come.  

The yard and trees reveal a tangle of long shadows and gilded snow as the day races west. I am pensive, and troubled by the ephemeral nature of all I know and trust. I feel as if I am witness to the final days of Eden, standing atop a mountain where daylight still presides while below me, darkness pools.

And with that, the dogs erupt from the couch in joyous barking. Their two-legged hero is coming down the walk with his bike, looking pumped and pleased with himself. My heart calms. All is good with our world as I lift my face to the crescendo of golden light mirrored in the waters of the bay.