I love the moon.
No, I really love the moon. I know a lot of people say that, but I really love the moon.
And I think it loves me.
I’m a Cancer, so that’s probably why. I don’t put much faith in the astrological signs, but I’ll be damned if sometimes they’re not spot-the-fuck on.
One of my earliest memories is laying on that back part of the car—the part back where the rear window is, and yes, this is before seatbelt laws—and watching the moon follow our car all the way to grandma and granddaddy’s house out at the lake. I’d lay there on that little platform and watch it follow me. I’d talk to it like a faraway friend, spinning out in space much like me.
I see the moon, and the moon sees me. God bless the moon, and God bless me.
When I get to Heaven, I’m going to ask God why he didn’t give us two moons. No, not really. I’d never be that impudent with God. His wisdom is far, far, far greater than mine. He probably only gave us one moon because he knew we’d do something stupid and cause two moons to crash into each other and kill us all dead. And I believe He loves us, so…
My dad tells me the story of when the astronauts first stepped foot on the moon, he took me outside and pointed to the night sky, and said, “Men are walking on the moon right now.”
I was two. I said, “Yes, I see them.” I don’t remember this, but I believe it.
When I can’t see the moon at night, I feel lost. When I do see the moon, I’m reassured. All is well with the world. And when it’s a harvest moon… all low and big and orange and inviting… that’s the best time. That’s when anything is possible.
The full moon is like pregnancy, all full of hope the promise of life. When the moon is just a sliver, like a cut fingernail, it’s hanging on for dear life, with the promise of fullness right around the corner if you’ll only give it more time.
In my darkest hours, I cling to the promise of the moon. I know it won’t let me down.