It’s a Friday evening. I’m cuddled up next to my toddler who is drinking milk and getting ready to sleep. I feel something, a sense of nostalgia for something I’m that isn’t happened yet; a familiar yet inexplicable feeling. Then the clouds start to part and a streak of moonlight whitens the sky, somehow adding myriad colours with its pale beauty. I realise the moon is nearly full; I lost 13 days since darkness, and where did that time go?
The trees obscuring the full spectacle suddenly sigh aside in the wind, and I gasp at the spectacle. That round face, as familiar to me as my own, basking in creamy clouds and making silhouettes of us all. The light washes over me like a cool shower, one that quickly becomes reality as the clouds gather back in, hastily burying the moon’s light under their watery bushel.
Such a short-lived moment, yet I’m left smiling for ages afterwards. Minutes stretching onwards like the wet, bumpy roads, walked with a lighter step than before.
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