Last night I almost walked to the moon in my nightgown, my husband's L.L. Bean slippers flopping around my bare feet and a hand-me-down black leather jacket I got after my younger son's shoulders got too broad.
Holding an empty canvas firewood carrier, I had stepped outside somewhere around 9 pm to get wood for the night. When I looked up, the moon was caught in the maple tree low on the western horizon, and the stars were like stepping stones, bright lights in the dark, all of them calling, come here with your empty bag.
It was so tempting to walk off and away, leaving the world and its responsibilities, my responsibilities, in my red house, in my backyard garden, in my mind.
The moon was merely a crescent, tilted like a hammock hung between dead branches. I stood in my driveway and thought I should tell my guys, who were waiting to watch another episode in season four of Mad Men before the new season starts. They thought I had just gone into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
A raccoon scuttled by. I saw the neighbors putting out garbage cans. Then suddenly I was no longer seduced by the sky; filled the firewood carrier, stoked the wood stove, and curled up in a blanket with a cup of tea, thinking if I'm going to walk to the moon, I need to arrive in style. My hair wasn't even brushed.