When I was little, I saw the moon in the sky one afternoon. My four- or five-year-old mind was encountering data that violated a pattern I thought I understood. The moon was out, and yet it was not nighttime. So I asked my dad why the moon was out.
Dad looked up at the moon and said, “Well, I guess the guys who take it down in the morning forgot, and left it up there.”
I cannot remember how long I believed that there were in fact men responsible for putting the moon up and taking it down. But I know I believed it that afternoon.
At some point during my teenage years, I came down with the idea that when lonely people look up at a full moon, the mates they have yet to discover look up at the same moment; that connections are strengthened in these instants; and that two people, unknowing, connection strengthened, would suddenly be one step closer to finding each other.
The concept reshaped itself when I got me a girl. On fullmooned nights when we were apart, I would think to myself, as I looked up, that surely she was looking at the moon too, because I could feel the connection, and I felt it could carry me through anything. I called her once, asked her to go to the window and look at the moon with me. I suppose I was cheating to keep a pet notion alive.
Tonight as I drove home, there was a burned out moon in the sky.
By the time I got home, there was a new moon emerging from its chrysalis.
(“Easter,” he thinks yet again. “Rebirth.”)