The pangs that once arrived – unexpectedly, always unexpectedly – and only in the deepest of nights, now visit often. They come at daybreak when the squirrels scratch at the rooftop shingles before leaping off, branch to branch. They invade the dull white thoughts of green grocers, and bald car tires, and rotting leaves, and baseball statistics. They rush pell-mell into the morning shower to deliver an icy lacing to the whoosh of warmth. Pangs of omission. Thoughts of not enough, not having done enough. Enough love, and enough joy. Understanding, and, yes, enough wealth. But was there reflection? Tangible kindness? No, never enough kindness. And now, as the shadows lengthen, and the amber hues of dusk, once welcome, bestow only regret, they are golden rays no more.