It’s the sort of night where the sky hangs low in a pinky-brown haze just beyond the rooftops.
Perhaps if I could fill these last days and hours with people, they wouldn’t be so frightening. But I am sitting here alone in an almost-empty room, and feeling rather like a staticky old sock caught in an everlasting spin cycle. It’s dark in here.
And so I flung my white scarf over my head and went out into the night hoping desperately for a glimpse of moon. (I went to the mailbox and found something that made me chuckle rather sardonically.) The clouds are hanging so low that a streetlamp half the block away reflects off our house with almost enough light to read by. But it’s a murky sort of light, pink, and brown, and dirty; and it isn’t what I want tonight.
A cold, clear moonlight would grant me some peace, I think, and help me to sort out the rubbish; but it simply isn’t there, and I am alone.
I suppose the moon is still there, though, invisible behind the clouds–is this the glimmering of faith? And is it enough, I wonder, to simply know the moon is there when you’re desperate for the sight of it?