I Found The Moon: Coming Out Of A Depressive Episode
“The moon,” my daughter yelled. “Look Mommy, the moon.”
The sky was a faint shade of blue; in fact, since the sun was still rising it was barely colored at all. Instead, brightness swallowed everything. But I followed her gaze — I let my eyes travel the length of her outstretched arms and to the tip of her fingers — and looked up. There, just beneath the power lines but above my neighbor’s rooftop, was the the small circular satellite. (Yes, the moon is considered a satellite — a natural satellite.)
“Aw, you’re right baby! That is the moon.”
My daughter screeched with glee and laughed with delight. She watched the moon as it moved across the sky with our every step, and with every turn. She asked me where it was when it sank behind buildings. When it couldn’t be seen through the trees. And she would clap when it returned. When we could again see the moon. And while we walk to school every day — remarking on things like the weather, the flowers, or the color of cars — there is something different about this day. Because this day was the first time in a long time when I could feel her joy. This day was the first time in a long time I was able to smile, and I was able to laugh.
This day was the first time in a long time I saw the moon: I really, really saw the moon.
