I can see the tip of the mountain through my window. It’s early. The clouds rest against the mountaintop, while the sun rises, warming them all. Below, the trees begin to glisten— light seeping through the sleepy clouds onto each leafy branch.
My Momma always said golden hour was her favorite. It’s mine too.
“Mmmm, golden hour— when the earth shines and all is fine,” Momma use to say.
I don’t ever miss a sunrise. Momma and I would watch the magic of golden hour every Sunday. Since she’s passed I watch the magic every day.
I can feel her there with me. I can almost see her there, next to me. Her eyes closed and nose level to the sun, and the way her hair caught the light, like the wheat in the fields. I can hear her soft inhale, followed by her sweet “Mmmm,” as she exhales.
I’ve never met another human that appreciates golden hour the way Momma did.