It's the coincidence that pulls her to the window on the night of a full moon, just to pull a smile from her eyes, a nod of acknowledgment from that secret place. As dusty as the idea is, it is the revolution of past deeds, the tremor of a path diverged.
It's all about howling at the moon.
It's her, sittin' on the porch of her nice family home, listening to Cardinals baseball on the radio with her husband, while the dog sits at their feet. The three kids are runnin' round the yard, chasin' after lightnin' bugs, and she's content. She really is.
It's that one tattoo she has. If you look closely at her hand, you can see it on her ring finger. She'll never get another, not because it hurt . . . she actually found it kinda thrilling, but because another would cheapen the one she has.
It's in the stone of that ring, the symbol that is the Yin Yang, the symbol of the stark differences between her husband and herself; the way they fit together.
But it also represents her. The constant struggle she finds within herself. All of the outside bearings that say 'This is, and should be,' and what she feels is her natural language.
Why write about it? It's certainly not a struggle exclusive to her. Shit, man. If you can find somebody who says they aren't tempted by something, they're lyin'.
So, while she finds the greatest part of her resting in ease, so many nights, just porch-sitting, the crackle of the radio and burn of citronella oil enough to entertain her thoughts . . .
. . . there's this moon tonight, this larger-lookin-than-usual, big, bright orange moon, and she remembers when she would raze the night to this moon.
And Somewhere back there, a different woman stirs. She took a different road and we only see each other on nights like this-- like fingertips in hallways.
So, I just want to tell her "It's okay. Me and the moon, we're alright."
If she needs to reach us, she knows where to look.
