The Moon and I

 THE MOON AND I

“…luminous and exuberant, the full 

moon reigns once more in the night.”

Sunday, December 10, 2011, four-thirty in the afternoon; the intersection of Route 4 East and Oak Street. It is the boundary between the towns of Dover and Rollinsford in New Hampshire. The traffic light is red. I stop. Dover to the right, and Rollinsford—where I live—to the left.

The light changes; I turn left. I look straight ahead, and a marvelous apparition leaves me breathless. It isn’t a beautiful woman, nor the loveliness of the landscape. It is the moon.

The moon is a giant disc, intense orange, suspended so close and so low in the sky that it seems to kiss the treetops. I am driving at sixty miles per hour, but I slow down to enjoy this magical moment. At 4:30 p.m., it is already night in New Hampshire; darkness takes hold of the world, and the moon has undressed herself to appear radiant, intense, and almost within reach.

I left home early to go grocery shopping and to pick up the fresh, natural Christmas tree I had pre-ordered. I have the groceries in the trunk; the eight-foot Christmas tree is tied to the roof of the car. It is winter in the Northern Hemisphere; it’s cold out in the streets, and I miss the warmth of the house, but my encounter with the moon is warm and intimate.

On the car radio, I listen to an interview with Paul Simon. With genius, he explains the creative process of his own music and sings tracks from his latest album, So Beautiful or So What. At one point in the interview, the singer-songwriter mentions that Philip Larkin, one of his favorite poets, had gone several years without writing toward the end of his life. Simon notes that when the poet was once asked why he wasn’t writing, he replied: “My muse must have forsaken me.”

As I drive, I think about Larkin’s answer. I look at the moon and repeat to myself: “Tonight, my muse has not abandoned me.” I see her so close that I imagine if I accelerated the car just a little, I could reach her and ask those old questions piled up in my mind since I first learned to recite: Luna lunera, cascabelera, ojos azules, boca morena.

The drive along Route 4 East is only three miles. At the end of my journey on this road, I come to a traffic light where, once again, I must turn left toward home. From here, I take one final look at the moon. She seems to be perched atop the spire of Berwick Academy, a school building that stands at the end of the road, high on a hill in the neighboring town of South Berwick, in the state of Maine.

I have turned left and then I glide downhill through the “Tunnel” of Foundry Street, and I see the moon again. Diagonally, flickering, and above all, flirtatious, the moon seems to play hide-and-seek with me through the spectral, leafless trees stationed on the right side of the road.

I’ve reached the end of the “Tunnel.” To my right, there are no more trees, but a clearing where a stretch of the Salmon Falls River expands. In the distance, against the night horizon, the full moon reigns once more—luminous and exuberant—while I continue my way toward my dwelling.

One more street and I see my house from a distance, with my wife’s car parked in the driveway. A sign that both she and my daughter are already back; the heat must be running, and the house must be warm and cozy.

I park my car in the driveway. My cat, “Kitty,” waits for me in front of the door, showing his joy by rolling on his back. I begin to unload the groceries, and then the Christmas tree. It is the final point of a busy day’s chores, and I still have a little time left to write.

… I finish reviewing these lines. I began with nothing definite in mind, simply following the direction of my car. And now that they are finished, I ask myself: Why did I write them?

Truth be told, I don’t know… perhaps I wrote them thinking that the moon and Christmas are just around the corner.

New Hampshire, USA

December 2011

The “Tunnel”, on Foundry Street,

Rollinsford, NH (Summer of 2011)

Salmon Falls River, Rollinsford, NH

(Summer of 2011)

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