A bedtime story read over the phone, a story about the moon that went from lips to lithium to stratosphere to ear.
Last night I caught the moon sneaking up under a bank of low clouds, orange and glowing, a whole different creature than the pale light high in the sky.
In the story, the little mole wanted to pull down the moon– it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Nevermind that the moon was too big, too far away. Nevermind that you can’t own the moon and that it’s ever-changing.
He thought he broke it, scattered in shards of rippling light on the water. But you can’t break the moon, any more than you can break Magic.
The only you can do is stop, stand still, draw in your breath and gaze at the thing that makes your chest swell with love, night after night, moment by moment, and be glad to be alive, exactly here and now, when such a wonder exists.