I hope you all saw the blue moon last night. We climbed up a lifeguard chair and watched from the beach as it lit up the ocean like a fucking angel.
There was music and dancing on the boardwalk behind us, sadly not live music and the DJ came straight from a grade school dance circa 1993. Towards the end he took some requests. First Journey drifted across the dunes to emphatically remind the waves not to stop believing, hold on to that feeeeeling.
Then it got real quiet. Was that howling? An older couple walking hand in hand on the shoreline stopped before adjusting their walk to a familiar groove. The woman in her flowy vacation dress reanimated her walk as only Michael Jackson’s Thriller can induce. Her fellow followed suit a little self-conscious because they had us and two fishermen as their audience. Back lit against the moon, their silhouettes looked like the happiest zombie lovers ever.
That they were older, maybe 70s, doesn’t matter except that I was thinking of the dead. How little time we get. I wish I’d had a camera last night. The image of the two of them dancing in the dark, laughing at themselves with the waves lapping at their feet is one I’ll burn in my mind until it doesn’t seem real. Would much prefer a gigantic photograph of that couple in that moment on my wall than any piece of art.
And now it’s Saturday and I have two things due by 2 before my weekend can begin. Listening to Gaslight Anthem’s Handwritten and drinking magic coffee, which is code for extra strength masked by cinnamon and make it a double.
And we waited for sirens that never come
And we only write by the moon, every word handwritten
And to ease the loss of youth and the many, many years I’ve missed you
Pages plead forgiveness, every word handwritten
Here, in the dark, I cherish the moonlight
I’m in love with the way you’re in love with the night
And it travels from heart, to limb, to pen