The morning was blue, as I took my sister into town at 5:45. The sky, the mountains, the trees, the road, were all a soft, smoke, blue. And against the blue shone the white street lamps, strangely symbolic, as though, in that barely waking world they belonged more to to the fey, night creatures, than to men.
I remember another morning, a pink morning, when my father was driving me to visit my grandmother in the hospital. Then, the street lamps were golden, and the pavement a warm grey. I sat with my grandmother until noon, but I never told her about the dawn.
There was also a black sunrise, on the Dakota plains. We had slept in the car, too tired to set up camp, and had woken early from the cold. A narrow line of brilliant silver separated the black sky from the black plains, and far above us, to the right, a single planet hung. The last star before day.
These pictures go with me, wherever I go. I can close my eyes and see them, and remember how I felt, and what they mean to me. I have a photograph of the black sunrise, but I never look at it. There is a part of sight which cameras cannot capture. A sense of completeness. And that part, the part I prize most, fades each time I look at a photograph of the event. Photographs are not memories, and they are a very poor substitute.