I’m wary of becoming so accustomed to seeing the craters on this side of the moon that they start to become familiar, that I even start to love them, just to say goodbye. Like so many other things in a life of leaving, just when things feel like they are finished beginning, I make them end. It’s already too late. I already love the lopsided smile of the man on the moon here, turning over his shoulder with a saucy grin and a wink.
They say the dots eventually connect, but gloss over the friction of traveling in a line from one to the next. It’s a magic of closed throats, choked back tears, desperate kisses, belly laughs, lots of glasses of wine and wisecrack remarks, quiet rage, bewilderment, early morning coffees, fake smiles, and going where you never went before just because you could. Because you’re finally figuring out that the rules are going out the window, and you might as well make a big mess of things while they’re messy anyway. And because maybe some rules were meant to broken.