Moon and Glass

The moon is a crescent and the stars are hardly visible behind the light foggy clouds which have hovered over us all day. The night is low and our walk was a quiet one. For such a cold day the air was surprisingly warm and smelled sweet, like the new white flowers appearing in thick, popcorn clumps on the trees.

Duncan was restless but I was aimless, meandering wherever he led, alternately watching my feet strike the pavement or looking up at the sky for a quick glimpse of our fickle moon, pointed on both ends and as sharp as a cartoon smile.

I have been feeling lonely and have noticed I have been distancing myself from my friends, content instead to come home and lay on the bed with the cats curled around me while Duncan gnaws on a tennis ball at my feet. I've been making dinner late and falling asleep on the couch, the windows and patio door forgotten and left open, waking only after I was so cold I had no choice but to get up and crawl under the covers in bed for the last hour of the night. Philip Glass' "Mad Rush" has been on a nearly constant loop, the piano notes rising and falling, the repetition as soothing as balm. I have not been sad, just living alone and making one long note of it.

And so tonight, on our last walk, while Duncan watched for rabbits, I watched for the moon, and when she finally peeked out, along with a single star, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to be guided by Roo, the rhythm of our steps a soft voice saying, "This way, this way, this way." I made a wish, softly, under my breath so that not even Duncan heard it. But the smiling moon must have and a moment later there was a whoosh above our heads as an enormous owl swept down low, perhaps only fifteen feet above us, the soft white of its chest illuminated and clear, each feather a thing of crystalline beauty. It alighted at the top of a pine like a dark Christmas star and swiveled its head all the way around to watch us and perhaps a mouse scuttling through the newly green grass.

A moment later my eye caught the shape of something else, something moving across the low night sky toward us, something slow and dark, round and glimmering at its edge, a rain cloud bearing a silver lining. It danced around a building, slowed and hovered above us for just a moment before finally sinking downward, landing soundless and bounceless at my feet. I bent forward and picked up a silver foil balloon with the words "Happy birthday" written across its shimmering surface.

The moon rarely sends us messages when wished upon and when it does we should not ask questions Today is not my birthday but I think I know what it means. And it makes Philip Glass sound less lonely.