While we were out camping, Offspring the Third told me that his girlfriend had sent him a text to tell him she missed him (aaaah, young love), and that he had replied to encourage her to go look at the moon, because he was looking at the same moon, and it would thus seem as if they were not so far apart. That was very sweet, I commented. (Perhaps, in our more jaded moments, a bit sappy -- but yet, heartfelt in the way that first forays into teenage romance can be.)
Besides: he has a point.
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I love the moon -- her waxing and waning, as all women do; her comforting presence in the cool and the dark of the night. She is lovely. Changing yet consistent. And eternal, watching without judgment, and providing company when the world is still and one feels most alone.
Perhaps, in our individual solitudes under the moon, we are, in fact, together in our shared humanity.
I like to think so.
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