It was an evening of small moments. In a way, it seemed as a bit of a comedown compared to the week previous. No white beach stretching miles in either direction. No perfect blue sky blazing down in glory. And certainly no sunsets. Alas not a sunset to be seen in any direction, certainly not to the west where the concrete towers loomed large and the power cables stretched thickly overhead. He desperately wanted to see a sunset again, a kiss of fire against the dark of the sea. Instead, he turned back to the cutting board. Small pieces of onions and carrots lay strewn about in a certain type of order. About time to toss them into the pot with the now well browned sausage. It was a good thing to use one’s hands to create, even if the creation fits entire into a small silver saucepan. He looked at his hands and marveled. These hands were just trailing through the waters of the clear clean gulf not three days ago. And now, they worked at making dinner. He would be a creator too, though the marvel of earth and sea and sky that his eyes had recently witnessed was just possibly a few magnitudes of grandeur greater than the dinner now steaming on the stove. Of course, the creator of those marvels had created him too. And in reflection of greater glories this pale image worked away in the small kitchen, at peace and in rest. About time to toss in the tomatoes and the milk. And then, slow bubbles until dinnertime.