Last night, Rebecca’s son-in-law, Jonathan, came into the house with a photo he had just taken of a beautiful sunset. I set aside Why Bob Dylan Matters by Richard Thomas and hurried outside to capture my version. Something about twilight broke the spell of my nestling in.

Picture 11,687 lay fallow overnight until early this morning, when I read this terrific story by Maria Rattray about growing old that included the idiom ‘at the end of the day.’

Half-light, aging, day’s ending, I know what you’re thinking. And you are right. I’m 76. Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar. But that’s not the end of the story.

I stole everything for this essay except for itself.

Even the last line, which I purloined from Mr. Dylan, that concludes the aforementioned book.

Try to create something original, you’re in for a surprise.

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