The Moon Looked Bigger Tonight

The moon looked bigger tonight, though I know it probably was not. It was only the angle of the street, or the trees being bare enough to make room for it, or the way tiredness enlarges whatever is patient.

I had gone out for milk and came back carrying the carton against my ribs like something breakable. The pavement was still warm from the day. Somewhere, behind a fence, someone was laughing at a television.

There are nights when the world feels arranged for noticing. Not improved, not rescued, only briefly legible. The gate latch, the moth near the porch light, the pale bruise of cloud crossing the sky: all of it sat quietly in its place.

I stood at the corner until the traffic light changed twice, even though I had nowhere to cross. It seemed rude to hurry.

By the time I reached home, the moon had returned to its ordinary size. I put the milk away. I left the kitchen dark.