Bridges draw attention to rounded arches. What feet stroll or pace the brick’s lane stretched across the river? The stone monuments line the lips before the gaping mouths of open gates.  My feet press for rest, stopping in front of a man and a boy standing. The boy balances the moon on his fingertips. The man is in earnest communion with the demanding world. He cannot in this moment remember how he too was a boy once, circling the moon with his fingers, caressing the lantern in the sky with his tips as if luring the celestial body onto himself.

The young lad leans his light weight into his father with caution, knowing not to disturb him in a matter of apparent importance. Seeking physical proximity unspeakable trust offers, the boy waits, silently practiced restraint, all the while rehearsing a soft and commanding look, there Father.

Whispers: Father, you weren’t stone then, today your mind is occupied not your heart, follow me as I point out life, grasp the moon with the entirety of your true nature, sink into the obscure craters and resolve the mysterious play between light and dark by resting in its presence.

——

A muted onlooker to the scene, I am absorbed in my own testament of being present.

My moon, earthly splinter, hugging our circumference, are you witnessing our tiny being? Is my breaking out of my trajectory a visible band cutting through high grass, spelling hieroglyphs into the open sky? Or is it a lone finger tracing stars, beckoning them closer to receive the transmission of my heart’s hunger?

Suspended bullseye marking the colorless canvas, you remind me of my bulbous desk light hanging over me as I sift through work, patiently bearing with me while the room has fallen silent in solidarity with the streets and the neighboring houses. I appreciate you both in your dutiful presence through the night. Then, as sleep dusts my eyes and my head grows heavy, I reach for the switch and announce my parting.

Idly I embrace the moon with the curvature of my pinky, slipping it into my breast pocket, where it beats on to the rhythm of life. Startled now for sleeping and waking serve the same stirring inside of me, I thread my calling from the one source forcefully pressing for freedom. The guided swerves of the needle forfeit security. I stand on the bridge, watchful eyes rolling over the moon, blending the deflected light into my own being. Maturing now, letting go now, just a man, previously a boy, trailed by the moon on the boulevard of life.