Tonight I’m sitting here on the sofa reading and half watching the TV with two items of clothing on my lap that need buttons sewn on and I look up and there, centred perfectly in the middle of a gap in the curtains, is the barely waning moon.
I have seen the full moon this cycle. The other night I’m walking home down Spadina and there it is: hanging in the sky between two glass covered condo buildings and dropping incandescent light down though tree branches of the little Clarence Square Park; seemingly shy and unassuming, but arresting in its luminescence. As always, up there in the sky.
I take photographs from the park, and then again from the bridge over the railroad tracks. But none is worthy of that moon.
Because it’s the appearing of it, not the photographing of it that gives you pleasure. It arrives every single month like a pendulum. Giant, slow clock in the deep indigo sky; not demanding, not needing to be photographed. It’ll always be back again, most likely popping in without warning.
You forgive her for that because she's so beautiful. Really, a feather could knock you over as you stare at her while she lifts slow, higher and higher and farther away.