Remembered the moon. Just three of us, telling stories, holding big wine glasses with both hands. It was supposed to be the biggest, the brightest, the closest we would ever see our whole lives. Ran outside to catch it. First morning of spring. Stood by the river barefoot, wondered what it felt like to be up there, all alone.
Sat with a family by the beach, wrapped up in hats and scarves and mittens. Full up on kale soup and fireside conversations. The moon rose up from behind the cliffs, we listened to waves, breathed in the coldest air. First night of spring. Stood with crowds of moon-watchers, wondered what it felt like to be up there, always whole but always changing.