“Hey, is that the moon?” I asked while peaking over the lake, realizing that what originally looked like a part of the pier lights was moving with my vehicle, as the pier fell behind us.
“Oh shit, I think it is.”
The moon was red, so low on the horizon, and crested at an unnatural angle. It felt like a trip, but neither of us had taken anything, and both of us were seeing it. Insanity shared. I needed confirmation for another, from anyone. A whole city full of people, and yet we seem to be the only ones to notice the oddity, that between glances seemed larger than previous. At the approaching stoplight, we each took a picture, in the way a schizophrenic would use to validate their visions. On my screen, the odd rock displayed. You’re not crazy.
At the next light, we looked again.
“Is it getting closer?” The voice asked in a place between concern and intrigue.
We look on. When the light turned green, I made no move to go. Just watched. Horns behind me blared, metal frames swerving past, seemingly not caring about the Eldridge beast on the horizon. I got out of the car. My friend following in suit. The car now parked at the green light, driver’s and passenger’s doors wide open. We walked with no intention of step, both climbing over the lane divided without losing sight of it. Her beauty. The mineral form amongst the stars, some two-hundred-thousand miles away yet so close in the vastness of it all, coming home. The estranged daughter, seeking it’s place in mother’s arms. The prodigal son.
The horns and monotony meant nothing as we walked across the pavement, the grass, and the sand. Till the water came up to our feet. Till she told us hello with its tide. Till we sat.
Getting home no longer mattered. We would sit there until the moon returned home. And if there was still breath to give, then we would leave.
But the sinner has returned.
And must be celebrated.