Comfort

If there could be a theme to the coming of old age, it ought to be an orange sun in a red sky as it dips past the horizon;

So quickly you’ll miss it if you blink;

So slowly you’ll never see it move.

In fall, when the leaves lose their youthful exuberance and the trees that once stood so proud begin to wither and die, and everything takes on a new kind of dignified beauty.

When the soft light of a setting sun glides across the red leaves of a small, quiet town, there is treasure to be found in the coming of old age.

It does not matter that all will soon be new again; things are beautiful as they are.