The Weight of Light

I keep a small, smooth stone in my pocket, pulled from a riverbed that dried up years ago. It is cool to the touch, a heavy reminder of a current that no longer runs. We often mistake the permanence of objects for the permanence of the moments that birthed them, forgetting that light, unlike stone, refuses to be held. It washes over the landscape, gilding the grass and the hollows for a heartbeat, only to retreat into the gray. We spend our lives trying to anchor these fleeting golden hours, pinning them down with memory as if we could stop the sun from shifting its weight. But perhaps the beauty is not in the capturing, but in the knowing that the warmth is borrowed. We are merely witnesses to a passing glow, standing in the fields while the shadows stretch their long, thin fingers toward the coming dusk. If we could truly hold the light, would it still be as precious, or would it eventually turn to dust in our palms?