I raised my glass to the moon tonight, and I yelled, “CHEERS, Mama Moon,” because I felt like she gets it, trying to reflect light in the darkness and succeeding and failing in larger and smaller measures depending on the night and her cycle and how much access she has to the sun.
“CHEERS, Mama Moon,” I yelled outside, in my big, baggy, pilled sweatshirt that’s soft and worn, and my black leggings decorated with dog hair, and my booty slippers that aren’t meant for walking on the road but are used that way anyway even though the rain seeps in the sides and soaks the socks I stole from the kids’ laundry basket because I couldn’t find any clean socks of my own.
“CHEERS, Mama Moon,” I said, and I felt like a hippie saying it, at one with the universe, but I also felt self-conscious because I said it without thinking, feeling this strange kinship with a circle in the sky, so I looked around to see if the neighbors heard me so I’d know whether I should apologize — again — for my volume and lack of bra.
“Cheers, Mama Moon,” I said, and I nodded at her and thought of my own waxing and waning, and comings and goings, and ups and downs, and the mysterious pull I have on the seas of my little world, affecting their tides and the ways they erode and repair the world around them.
“Cheers, Mama Moon,” I said, and I wondered if she ever feels alone, like I do, in the black night when the sun is blocked from her view and no one can see her, even though she’s surrounded by stars.
“Cheers, Mama Moon,” I whispered, as I walked up my front stairs, and skipped the bent boards, and paused on the porch, and listened to the children hollering at each other and their screens.
“Cheers, Mama Moon,” I said, and I lifted my glass again. “Shine on.”