I believe the moon has spent a lifetime watching me. Unfortunately, I was too young to remember or even care that the bright silvery thing was hanging up there. What was it to me? I never thought about it as something that we could walk on, or would want to.
A lot of stuff has taken place under my moon. I’m sure it watched me go trick-or-treating and eat myself almost sick by the time I got home.
More than likely it remembers a night I spent in a pup tent with an Army friend. He woke me up screaming. A desert rat had eaten away one side of his combat boot.
Moonlight is awesome. Years ago, I spent a memorable evening on the rooftop of my apartment building in Boston’s Back Bay. My girlfriend and I carried a collapsible table, two folding lounge chairs, a very large portable radio, along with a gallon jug of very inexpensive wine to the roof via elevator. We both had a splitting headache the following morning as well as a memory that lives with us to this day.
I like to think of it as “my” moon. On one hot summer night I tried staring at it from atop a big sand dune adjacent to the Atlantic Ocean. It didn’t work. Mist from the ocean rose high enough to cloud my view. Each time I tried to focus on the big orb, mosquitos the size of an Airbus bit into my exposed flesh. And when the breeze gusted, granules of sand peppered my face, arms, and legs. But my moon never complained. It remained in position, chronicling the succession of nights and people passing through time.
How many in this world take time to look up at the moon? And perhaps think of it as an old friend and welcome its comfort? Do they look at the moon’s fullness and wonder if it “knows” something about them?
Philosophers, poets, navigators, prophets, story tellers, and star gazers, have seen my moon, but not as I do. My moon is special. It has brightened my darkest moments and has always led me into a new and glorious day.
You should see my moon.
From a work in progress