“The moon, thought warm
Escort me there
Cold moon of night, it sighs”
How long had it been since she actually saw the moon? “Two of my favorite things, the moon and its monthly transition and the stars with their ever changing formation, the twinkling, dancing, yes my two favorite things,” she thought lovingly. Until tonight she had forgotten what they looked like. Living in Chicago with the over grown trees, narrow streets, light pollution and buildings that block out any view of the actual thing that causes the light, you just know the time of day by the glow.
Looking up at the moon she saw her image faintly in the train windows, super imposed upon the face of the moon. “I am in the moon and the moon is escorting me to where? To there, but where is there?”
She always thought of the moon as being warm, even in the cool of the night, it seemed warm. Not tonight, even with the stuffy train filled with people I didn’t know, even with the mid-July temperatures, it was cold.
“Talk to me moon, tell me what to do, I see me in you, answer me, tell me I am gonna be alright.” she was playing Stevie Wonder’s newest C.D., a little present she bought, “can’t imagine love without you…
Can you picture mother earth in the palm of your hand?
The entire universe as a tiny grain of sand
And it feels impossible to do
As I can't imagine love without you…
As she pondered that idea, it spoke of a universal love, yes, love without each of us giving and receiving love…“was there anyone who could imagine life without me, love without me?”
Surely it is impossible to do, “love without you, without me? Was she going towards love, or away from love?” Did she even understand what love was? Do we ever?
“Yes, escort me there. I don’t want to go alone, but I am alone. When did I become so independent, adventuresome, I think I was always that way?”
One too many times she wandered off, stayed away, came home late, arrived when she wanted to. “You’re a free spirit is what you are!” Voices from the past are prone to haunt a person when anxiety is at its highest.
She recalled one time, she was in the fourth grade. It was her tendency to become lost. “I guess I was always lost when I was home anyway, so no one would really notice my not being home on time.” Being one of eight children and one of the youngest, and one of the smallest all lent towards a disappearing act. To her this was no different. Did anyone in her family (other than her three children) know where she even lived? She had disappeared, regrouping in a big city is Very conducive to that.
Disappearing into a world of monopoly at a friend’s house, playing dress-up and engaging in little girl chatter was no different. Mom said to be home by 4. She obviously felt different as she frequently wandered in much later. She was greeted at the door and Mom boldly said “if you cannot abide by my rules then you can just leave…” So she did, stomping up the open-cased stairs in a huff would send a counter message that she “meant business!”
To her she figured it did not matter if she was around or not, she was just one more to dress and feed.
She packed her bags and off in a dash she went. Her older brother stopped her a few blocks up the street and tried to reason with her, “come on, where are you gonna go, who is gonna be there? You just have to be home on time, can’t you just do what you are suppose to do?”
After some pondering and reconsideration she returned home and apologized, she just sighed back kinda like the moon.
Except for a few overnights, little vacations, etc. She lived in that house until her wedding night. It took her many years to break away to find what it would take to flee and to just be.
It never ceases to amaze the way memories that can come flooding in at the strangest times. So much of what is done in a lifetime really does just happen in the moment, a reaction. Not a lot of premeditation goes into plotting and planning and even when we do, it falls to the wayside and becomes overshadowed, much like being the youngest amongst the oldest and the smallest amongst the tallest and the lesser amongst the smartest. The first of the brood to be born overshadowed those that are remnants.
But what we do comes back over and over again…patterns. Do we ever become much different than we were at nine or ten?
“Oh cold moon of night whisper tales of love and lore to me, escort me on this train bound for nowhere. Oh cold moon of night talk to me, what, what’s that you said, oh…it was just a sigh.”
