My friend, who lives by the seaside, realized that I might be missing the ocean. It was not just the sound of the waves tickling the shingle I was thinking of fondly, or the feel of the water sliding over my legs, or even the crunch of sand and tiny seashells shifting about beneath my feet. More than anything, I was missing the sunset. Of course, the sun still sets where I live, but it has been almost impossible to see it properly past the roofs and chimneys and tall electricity pylons. I was missing an uninterrupted horizon and the sight of the sun, dipping into the water like a split egg yolk, and the sky shot through with fiery colours. My friend understood this. She took her easel down to the edge of the shore one evening and painted me a portable sunset. She used all the loudest colours in her palette and, afterwards, slipped it into an envelope and posted it to me, in my house, miles from the sea. Now, I can carry the sunset with me. I can watch it every evening. When I stand in front of those bold oranges and flaming reds, I imagine I can feel a kind of warmth rising off the canvas. I wonder if this is the memory of sunsets or perhaps, the thought of my friend, so many miles away, remembering me.