Red Room Where the Writers Are

The crescent moon is the end of a bracket. It hangs in the sky without nails. One minute I look and it is clearly visible, the next it is barely there at all. The black copse of trees beyond in the field to the south, appears to bow down and pay homage to this spectacle as I do at the dining room table, a candle lit in a blue glass holder that my mother in law gave to me many years ago. There is a pause in the night. The dishwasher stops its churn and apart from muffled voices overhead, nothing is audible. The moon is a symphony, it rises and falls, comes and goes, under bows and strings. It tears at my senses and comforts the ones that are invisible. 

Some people can never see the moon. For them there is too much darkness. Some people choose not to see it. Some don't look for it. A girl lies in a hospital room tonight after an overdose of pills. She is my sons age. I spent the day with my son. He injured his foot last night in a basketball game and so we made up for lost time, like two lost friends catching up. We drank smoothies and talked.

There is a girl in a hospital ward because of an overdose of pills. Her mother is dying of cancer, her boyfriend told her goodbye. I see the moon and bask in its light, the candle burns, the safe tidy house looks out into the darkness, the chasm of night.

There is no moon visible now, only a big looming blanket as if it was draped over the land. And even the sea has stopped in its motion, the tide redundant, it refuses to ebb.  Rejects the flow.