When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like a Lamppost
I got butterflies as we drove home last night, seeing a glow out of the corner of my eye. I thought it was the moon. The night was misty, post rain. The air was full—mysterious, romantic. “When the moon hits your eye” and all. It’s the kind of air that insists on being visible, air you glide through like a substance, thick like fairy dust or haunted forest vines.
When the air is enchanted, you move through it with that certain je ne sais quois. Purpose. Dreaminess. Oozing through this liminal space, the light caught my breath. My heart beat a little faster. That’s amore, they say. The moon! It’s the moon! That feeling of oneness when you see the one.
Starry eyed, I turned to see—you might have guessed—not the moon but a lamppost. Can you believe you spell it with two p’s? For big pizza pie? It wasn’t a lovely celestial body that pulls our tides and calls our inner wolf. But for a brief moment, it was as though I saw a new love walking down the street. Just as I bounded over, shouting heartily with a goofy grin and wild wave (“Moon!”), I saw my mistake. There is little resemblance between the moon and a lamppost. Yes, they’re both light sources. Okay, one is reflecting light and the other—no matter.
What matters is the love-at-first-sight feeling the moon always holds for me. And not to be outdone, streetlights CAN hold a candle in the dreamy, romantic department. Both show us the way as we stumble around lovelorn, swathed in mystery.
So, we drove on through thick night air, lit from within.