In each seemingly dwindling, tapering year, there’s a moment of peak bliss.
A point of no return, a gated entrance. Marbled archways built with pillars of freedom, promising the end to be near.
I didn’t pick up on it right away; I have no memories of observation or noticings of anything from before a couple of years ago, which I find odd.
What did I use to think about?
Before every breath held something heavier.
Before every step took tons of energy.
Before every glance held interpretation, before every laugh was mentally scrapbooked as proof of being loved, and before I started asking for receipts with every smile to hang on my fridge.
The moment the sun extends one of its limbs, beckoning you forward, hugging you tight. The moment you find Midas reincarnated within the solar body, grazing your skin, melting your fears, and turning them into precious, fleeting gold.
Before I started leaving pieces of myself everywhere I went, breaking myself apart, crumbling when I lost balance. Before those discarded shards of me became shrapnel in the chest of those I love the most.
But that’s just how it is now, and its grievances have come with merits. I now pay attention to the little things; I notice when the grass turns green and when the birds chirp and when the flowers bloom.
I notice the moment when the sun rises, the moment when the light switch flips on, the moment in which I cannot help but blink, bathed in glowing rays and riches.
The moment life turns golden.
The moment the sun extends one of its limbs, beckoning you forward, hugging you tight. The moment you find Midas reincarnated within the solar body, grazing your skin, melting your fears, and turning them into precious, fleeting gold.
The moment you realize your snow-covered, frosty skin had turned silver, changing temperaments under the guise of holiday cheer. To think I hadn’t decoded it until now.
But all that is past, and the ice has thawed. One glance from Helios and Winter’s silver lining is dissolved.
Now, everything is golden.
My theory is that the moment is not a singular wink in time; it’s different for everyone.
Maybe it’s simply the first warm day of the year, maybe it’s the first time you see a clear blue sky, or maybe it’s the first trip to Scooper’s for ice cream.
Maybe it’s the last cold day of the year, maybe it’s the last day of school, or maybe it’s the last time you leave the house in long sleeves.
I find beauty in how many options we get to choose from.
This year, I saw it all turn golden, before my tired, sunken eyes, in the passenger seat of a nighttime car ride, with my frozen yogurt cup empty in my lap.
The sun had just set, but I like to think it considered rising again, just out of elation for the future to come.
If the sun has something to look forward to, I probably should too.
I’ll suppress the nostalgic voice that’s screaming, “Nothing gold can stay,” and I’ll try to relearn what it’s like to glow. What it’s like to shine. What it’s like to love.
What it’s like to be golden.
