There is a particular time of year — late spring but not yet summer — when the evening light — not yet twilight — is ethereal and otherworldly.

The light is at once lavender and plum, orange and ochre. The windows, which can now be left open after the long winter, chaperone the shy breeze as it consorts with the curtains.

No one is more delighted by this perfect moment than the birds, who chirrup and call to the stars while bidding good night to the sun.

It is a time of year and a time of day in which no time exists. A magical, sublime in between.

In a hospital across the city, my friend of almost 30 years is fading from the world. Each visit, I am greeted by a diminished version of her. A version closer to the transition into whatever comes next. Her body has whittled to bones like dry tree branches. Her flesh hangs off them like vines. Her body can barely shoulder this mortal coil let alone have the strength to shrug it off.

My friend’s mind is a tangle of dreams, memories, hallucinations and synaptic misfirings. Where a week ago we could muster a conversation, today there seems no sense to be made in her cognitive stew. Her bold, beautiful mind slowly disassembling as it prepares to separate from her body.

Dylan Thomas begged his father to “not go gentle into that good night.” He pleaded for him to “rage, rage against the dying of the light.” I have always loved those words — their call for nobility and courage. To fight to the end.

Fighting has its place. But not everything is a fight. Sometimes an embrace is what’s required.

So I picture my friend in the midst of one perfect moment — not spring, but not yet summer. Twilight, but not yet night. I wish for her to relax into the breeze and into the last of her breath. Let the birds call to her by name for they are God’s messengers.

Go gentle into that good, beautiful night.

Welcome, welcome the dying of the light.