Moonlight Tea

Rose-gold lamp light glows through the pine like a low hanging moon. One remembers being taught to capture moonlight in a teacup – a gift from beloved – yet a cairn to grandmothers and their mothers. I've been moonless for a while now. But great, great grandmother Sheehan says one need not worry about such things.

Love.

Detachment.

Humility.

Let this be enough.

Let this be all.

*

Cerulean hydrangea blooms. Dead earwigs in dog bowls. Summer enters the senses through the spirit of two worlds.

In the book on her life, Grandma refers to her children as her “Baker's Dozen.” She writes a paragraph for each child, my father's being the most abridged. She is the apple of his eye, but perhaps he is simply her firstborn of thirteen, “family physician, now retired.”

What is passing is already gone.

*

An angst to write, which feels like a ablation upon silence. Stillness. Quiet.

We have a meeting place as outlined in the Book of Life; do you think it has a moon to behold?