Last night was the full moon.
Warm bright Mooniest Moon. And looking at it, I noticed the clouds racing past, over and out, as though the moon were playing peekaboo. There are times when I feel I'm riding this life in a little night boat, and some things that may matter one day, like remodeling a kitchen, can seem trivial or momentary. As though time were drifting my boat too fast round each curve to take it in or want for a thing. Are the clouds racing, or is it me? I am a watcher.
Naomi informed me,"Tomarrow will be the waxing moon." I don't know what a waxing moon is, but I'm impressed with her moon knowledge. Were there no waxing moon, I'd be impressed by her creativity to invent one.
All fall to bed, and I lay on the sofa watching cheesy television for a few extra minutes. The baby runs down the stairs in her pull up and tank, two tore out coloring pages in hand.
"I colored these for you," she tells me. Why aren't you in bed? I ask. She climbs into my lap on the sofa, her head tucked in my armpit falling out like a light. I want to wash my makeup off. The show is over, and all electronic devices off. I look at the little baby hands and I cannot move.
Because I know one day I'll blink my eyes and there'll be no more coloring pages or little diaper butts. They'll be other things, but maybe not so precious as this.
I had to wake her and get her up the stairs, then turn the lights out behind myself. I climbed into bed and looked out the windows. The clouds had stopped, cotton balls dyed blue. Round puffy floaty things. Stopped. Had they stopped, or had my night boat slowed? Tiny frogs sing with loud little gullets.
You can't mourn the loss of a thing you didn't know you had.
Some folk never even knew they had yesterday, though they did, in fact, have it.
The boat went and they forgot to pay attention.
I suppose if you stumble here, maybe you'll see the waxing moon tonite.
I have to go clean. Not my TiVo box :).
Cleaning you're TiVo is like eating a piece of cheese and saying you cleaned the refrigerator.
I'm thinking of all my friends back in Chicago with
their Facebooked Saint Patricks Day party photos.
Strange how I always think of them when I think of friends. They seem the real people.
Not that Georgia doesn't have real people. They definitely seem real in the check out line at the store when I have to wait behind them. It's just that these people are not like me.
Some days it seems so ladder like. What rung am I on in the order of condescension today. Because no matter how slighted I may feel, there'll be a place where mentally I slight another, making me no better. Perfect hair Lily Pulitzer capri wearing mom may think she be on a higher rung, and I may find myself thinking I'm on that higher place when I see someone wearing a ragged rebel flag scarf on their head (yesterday at lunch) or when I'm in the car rider line and a car in front of me throws a cigarette butt out the window before the teachers load their child. (My pet peeve.) And of course, as always, my thought bring me back to the beginning of the loop, as everything is a loop, and there are, in the end, no rungs, no ladder. Just the greater than alligator eating the smaller number, and we are all alligators... greater than or less than, depending on the day. Let us not be hungry ones.