West, Before the Light Leaves A Poetic Essay on Endings | PeonyMagazine

 

“Can you feel it leaving?” the blind boy asked, dragging his fingers over the rim of the park bench.

“I think so,” the other boy said, squinting at the sky. “It’s like the air got softer.”

The wind changed, brushing warm edges against their cheeks. Somewhere, a distant siren wavered in the half-light. The day didn’t snap shut, didn’t fall with a hammer. The horizon glowed pink, then amber, then a tired gray, folding itself into night.

“Sun’s down?” the blind boy whispered.

“Yeah,” the sighted one said. “But it’s not gone. You can feel it here,” he tapped his chest.

I remember thinking then how the world could teach you endings without ever saying a word, like a change in temperature, a pause in sound, a sky leaning into itself. That evening, I noticed that the comfort it left behind lingered in different ways, like a sensation that pulls you to just keep walking.

January feels like that.

The holidays fade, the commotion dissolves, and right there, things seemed to go slower, emptier, as if the world is giving us a chance to catch our breath. Plans we carried for weeks might settle into the corners of our minds. Some of the “should-haves” and “could-bes” drift away, simply because the weight of carrying them isn’t ours anymore.

West mirrors the moment we realize the chapter has softened enough to release itself. It’s noticing the last warmth before night, the echo of light still resting on our skin.

The sun goes down, the air cools, and stillness spreads.

More: https://peonymagazine.com/the-cardinal-directions/west-before-light-leaves/