“Hurry and look at the moon while
it’s still low,” the text message implores me, in the secret language
spoken between my boy and me. I can’t count how
many years it’s been since
we made this satellite our own. It’s always felt mystical, this idea that even when we’re apart we’re looking
at the same moon. I dash out the door; this isn’t my first sighting. I know how fast she rises, how quickly she
shrinks, how critical to catch her in her exact moment of ephemeral beauty.
Tonight just may be the most perfect
night of the year, certainly of this particular autumn to date. To quote a not-so-prolific songwriter of my
youth, “there's a warm wind blowin' the
stars around.” It’s nearly 80 degrees on the backside of October. The
brisk breeze rustles persistently, attempting to coax from the branches leaves
still reluctant to share their brilliant fall color.
I spot her, just above the trees,
at the end of my backyard pond. Her
light shimmers in the water, her shape fades, then brightens in the clouds. That
my son finds this piece of our cosmos as intriguing as I do and chooses to
engage me is no small feat.
It’s not just the moon that’s so magical to me, it’s this seemingly insignificant yet everlasting connection
we’ve made, my boy and me.
