Here Comes the Sun*

     It was as if she'd never seen it before, the sky before dawn, before the yellow ball rose, arc by arc, pulling day after it, the new day, that globe of possibility, with the gift of hope, of intimation of what could be next. The celebrated sunrise was clear proof of God, or, at least, the possibility of God, through the gift of everyday wonder, light that appeared unbidden, every day.

    So, she knew she should celebrate the sunrise, the promise kept every twenty-four hours but now, today, before the inevitable happened again, before it appeared, all she could see or think about was the beauty of the purple sky--not dark with the black of night or the soft blue of day, but a brightening hint of what was coming. It was as if the sun behind the curtain was preparing the daily gift of light just for her, new light, dependable and inevitable, the next verse of everybody's song.

    Yes. That's it. The beginning of a song, a story, a poem; a day's slow dawning that felt more like love than tragedy, more like possibility than despair. It was a gradual beginning, from the barely conscious moment after sleep until she became herself again, fresh from the mystery, from unremembered dreams that were as real as life when they happened, that had been an event and were now a mystery.

    Really? Who knew? Or needed to know? Nobody.

    So, again, she woke into the new day, an everyday day, a day that was enough, that was just right that was fine, and she said, as she always did, "It's all right."

*With a bow to Paul, George, and Ringo 

(Google says John wasn't on that track)