Every morning my husband and I have a little ritual that if we don't do it, we feel wrong all day. It's one of those insignificant things to the world outside our marriage, but integral to the way we start our day and remind ourselves why we're together. When he leaves for work, I stand in the window and when the car is out of the driveway, he stops and we wave and blow each other a kiss. You see, totally saccharin isn't it? But we love it and like I said, if for some reason we don't do it, we just feel off all day.
This morning as I was waiting in the window for the car to pull down the drive I happened to look up into the sky where the moon had ineffectually hidden behind a bare tree. This morning the moon barely revealed itself like a painfully modest woman, unable to blossom out of her comfort of receding into walls and clothes and bangs. Just a sliver of it shone. I began to think about how we romanticize the moon. Why? The sun is so much warmer, giving us the kinder part of the day. We associate love with heat and passion with fire, but we always think of the moon, the marbly cool moon when we think of romance. And yet the moon distances itself from us, aloof and blue, refusing to acknowledge the light of day. Is this how we view love and romance? Is this a harken to the game of cat and mouse the moon plays between earth and the sun, as many new lovers toy with each other? This sliver of the moon I saw, it practically sparkled. For all its modesty, it needed to be seen in some brilliantly serene light. What is it about that glow, the glow we attribute to early love, the beginnings of a marriage, newness?
And glow stuck. Glow spoke of its relationship with night, with a need to beat darkness. To glow, to shine, to reveal yourself in the softest light possible.