I entertained yesterday afternoon. Had two people over. There was wine, cheese, and some wassail. It was fun. We talked and laughed. I was nervous going in because previously my role in the entertainment process was cleaning. That was it. This time, I had to think about the wine, cheese, and wassail and cleaning, and decorating. Heck, I even whipped up a batch of chili in case they were hungry, and I continued bringing down Christmas decorations to light up the house.

This was the second time in two weeks that I entertained. All part of my campaign to step outside my old comfort zone, which basically tends toward being a hermit. I think its for the better. In fact, yesterday, I got what I think is a sign saying I’m on the right track. As we sat and talked, I noticed the light in the pasture change. The sun, setting in the west, banked a ray of light off the clouds in the east, and it fell to earth right at our feet in the pasture outside my window. We rushed outside to look at it and it was awesome.

Of course, as it often does, the light dimmed, and the pasture went back to being its dull winter self. One of the guests remarked on that, and it made me think of my departed spouse and the departed spouses of my friends. Because one minute life is all light and color then bang, the sun sets, and a once brilliant landscape becomes tasteless and empty. And what’s left is the memory of that brilliant light and color and a sense of loss. The only succor to be found is to think how fortunate it is to have had that memory that’s always there to ponder, because so many people never, ever get to see the light in the pasture or touch beauty and love, even for an instant.

John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale