In 1995 when we moved into our second apartment the moon always found its way to my pillow. It was most prominent in the winter, but it always managed to be there sometime through the nights of the full or nearly full moon.
The window faced northwest and because we were on the second floor we hadn’t put up curtains and the windows were always kept open.
I’d wake up in the middle of the night and feel the moonlight shining. I’d open my eyes and stare. I’d reach my hand out until it bathed in the light reaching out to me from space.
We’ve been in our house for twelve years. Our bedroom window still has no curtains, but it is smaller, about half the size or less of that first window. It faces southeast.
I can sometimes see the moon, but it doesn’t shine as prominently on this side. I try to reach out to it, but it is far away, almost never shining on my bedcover.
When it does, I reach out and touch the light. It is a rare occurence.
This photo was taken just a few weeks ago. I woke up and I was a bit shocked at how clear the moon looked. How bright it shone the through the window, touching my face. I squinted.
I knew the picture wouldn’t come out, but I took it anyway.
It was a memory.
It was a held hand.
It didn’t actually come out that badly.
My light. Moon light.