We live by the light of the moon.
We drive in the morning while the sun is not yet up.
The lights on the inside of our car glow a beautiful purple.
We can change the color to green or yellow or blue or red, but we always bring it back to purple because purple is where the heart is. Soft purple light makes the music that is playing in the dark mean so much more.
We put wallpapers on our back-lit screen of night scenes as the sun rises and reflects off the buildings outside the windows of the downtown building that we work in. The windows are everywhere and we can’t escape the day that drives out the night. It gives us life and we know it and we are filled with gratitude for the sun and the work and the reflection.
But we like night scenes on our computers… or almost night, like sunset or sunrise. Or day that looks like night, like when a storm is coming, or like the view of a forest path where the trees are so thick that light can only get through in single lines of sparkling gold.
Or a solitary streetlight glowing softly on abandoned winter city streets.
That’s where our heart is.
When we come home, as the light fades, you turn on twinkle lights on the back patio and you sit in the quiet and you read as the cool air fills your lungs and the glass is tipped which fills your heart with cheer.
You apologize for the smoke and you try to move upwind, but I don’t mind. I let it seep into my skin and it’s more than okay because the moon is out behind the clouds and I want it all. The smoke, the moon, the cool breeze, the clouds…
We go in and the dinner dishes are everywhere. You tell her that if she plays piano, while you do the dishes, then you’ll do the dishes.
I go for a walk by the light of the moon, with ear buds in my ears, and breath in my mouth that illuminates the night. My feet strike the concrete, around and around the cul-de-sac. Under the streetlight, away from the streetlight, all is lit up with a velvety, pale whitishness and then all is a deep midnight blue again.
As I walk back up to the house, I see all the warm colors of home through the open screen door and through the sheer, colored curtains on the living room windows. I open the door to hear her playing music that tells us she doesn’t want to waste our time with music we don’t need. Why should she autograph a book that we won’t even read? She’s got a different scar for every song and blood left still to bleed.
I see you through the open space of the home we’ve built together. You still have on your black pants, black shirt, black socks and white collar as you wipe down the counter of the kitchen that has been cleaned with love to music played with heart and I am reminded once again that this life is a prayer. All of it.
And the music continues. I won’t pray this prayer with you unless we both kneel down.
The kitchen is clean, the music is over, the lights in the house are turned off, one by one, and the quiet that we so desperately long for flows into every corner of the rooms in our house and in our minds as consciousness gives way to dreams once again.
Another day is over.
Another day lived by the light of the moon begins.