Standing on the porch, it’s freezing. I mean really, really cold. I had to put on a jacket and everything. It’s not even snowing out. Last eclipse until blah, blah, blah. Everything is the last. It’s never the last. It’s probably not even my last. But I’m out there. The moon doesn’t look any different. After about five minutes of shivering I go back inside.

“Is it done yet?”

“Nope.”

I trot around the living room. Now, I am hot.

I go back outside.­

Is the moon darker? That tree is in the way, but yes, a tiny piece is missing from the moon.

Did I forget my gloves inside?

It’s not that cold.

Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot.

Yes it is.

Screen door slams.

“Is it over?”

“No.”

I pull on my gloves and zip up my jacket. I wait about ten minutes, but in the heat of the house I am practically sweating. I go back, out, holding the door, closing it carefully, quietly. I know that this is not the action of politeness; it’s procrastination.

It’s freezing out here.

I look at the fullness of the moo, bright white light reaching down, showing the world differently, though not as full as before.

I watch until it’s about half gone. I love the moonlight. I want to be part of it. Even now, when I sleep, if the moon gets in my window, I lie in it bathing in the forever of the moonlight.

The sun is nice enough, and it has its place in the world, but the moon is really the other world. No one wants to live on the sun. The sun doesn’t let you look into her face. Her brightness hurts. And eventually fades. Or will.

The moon is gentle, controls the waters, lights the night and will always be.