Luna

Whenever I look at the moon, I think of how she’s 240,000 miles away and within arm’s reach and how despite the distance most of us count her as a friend.  Of how, like all friends, there’s a side of her we’ll never see.   Of how, like all people, her light is not her own.

I think maybe I like the moon because I am one.  I am not the kind of person others revolve around.

The moon would be the kind of person to observe the world around her and fail to adequately make sense of it.  And write about it for all the other moons and planets to read.  The moon, like a lot of us, is a participant, but not the main one.

Of course, a universe without moons would be woefully incomplete.  Not everyone can be a planet, our names mnemonically memorized by schoolchildren and our gravity pulling in lesser bodies.  Moons have gravity too.  Our moon is the architect of beaches and everyone’s distant friend.  There are worse kinds of people to be than a moon.

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