Saturday night my husband and I packed up the trunk with 2 collapsible chairs, his camera and tripod, my notebook and two missions. His was to capture the super moon as a digital image, mine was to capture it on paper. I shined a flashlight on his nimble fingers as they changed the settings and twisted caps, then I sat down in a chair and tried to set to paper the ideas running rampant in my head.
My eyes blurred at the brightness yet I could think of nothing eloquent, nothing unusual to write. This moon, which I’m sure I’ve never seen, shows up only every eighteen years. Eighteen years ago I was cleaning closets, setting up a crib and bumpers, moaning about my aching back.
I’ve surely seen plenty of full moons, slivered moons, even harvest moons. But I don’t remember a moon as bright as the sun. There is plenty more I don’t remember of the last eighteen years.
On a walk yesterday, we passed a family: two parents, a toddler boy and two puppies. Not miniature schnauzers like our Mollie and Madison, but Westie puppies, also tiny, also brother and sister. Not too long after the last super moon appeared, my family of five was likely taking a similar walk. Perhaps an older couple stopped to say hello, to say with their eyes what they dare not say aloud: hold on tight to this little hand, look for the unusual in every day, don't dare wish away this time.
The next super moon will be here in a blink of an eye.
