The moon at daytime is a strange phenomenon when you think about it. But we see it because it’s there.
When I can’t make sense of present thoughts, I return to rewrites. On August 29, 2025, I wasn’t normally as capricious. I crave familiarity most of the time, and on other days, I reject it. But on this day, peace was not an afterthought. I did not dwell too long on daily preoccupations, like composing a text message or my route back home. I smiled at strangers. I availed myself to move on and stay put. My cup was full, but I did not spill my contents. I took a seat, drew a sigh, and sat down. Traffic on the interstate was steady like the breath. Beyond the highway and rolling hills, I stared into Pixar clouds against the backdrop of the azure sky. The air felt right, just like out west.
The moment was a gift. But I fumbled with two feeble arms receiving it.
Watching the daymoon float back as I drove toward its direction, dodging the same potholes I’ve memorized, I thought, couldn’t I imbue this elusive encounter rather than compare and contrast? Every song that played on my commute back home sounded splendid, so what was the catch? Everything felt aligned but illusory. The day’s fleeting minuscule qualities give credence for rejoicing in a rather rare occurrence, but what gives? Am I waiting for a moment’s passing to wistfully stare into what was? Did I bolt in an attempt to elude an impending disappointment because what goes up… must come down?
One has to be here to have this. So, land here. Gently.
I pulled into the driveway, entered the house, and sat down in my son’s room. Marbles, train tracks, cars, and books were strewn throughout. But I did not see a mess. I saw color.