Luna

The pond was an ideal gathering place last night for several families in the neighborhood who wanted to witness the super blood moon eclipse. We quietly lined up along the split rail fence and watched and waited, cameras poised against the periwinkle sky. I appreciated the reverent hush among us, the knowing smiles that said, "I'm glad you think this is something special, too."

I've had a thing for the moon ever since my Nanee and I walked hand-in-hand down the street one September evening long ago, the golden harvest orb hanging bright and low on the horizon. She squeezed my hand and said, "We'll always remember this night, Juni."

Last night's moon crept stealthily into the sky, so much so that at first we didn't notice it. The colors weren't as vibrant in our part of the world, yet it was still something to see. (I wish I could have snapped a decent picture.) Avery and I giggled discreetly at the woman next to us who sighed, "I'm disappointed. I was expecting something bright and unusual."

I got to thinking about expectations. If we hadn't known about this moon, if we hadn't seen online pictures of London's ginormous fiery red blood moon and if we hadn't been told that this was something we hadn't seen since 1982 and wouldn't see again until 2033, we'd all have stopped in our tracks and pointed at the sky and said, "Look at the moon tonight! It's beautiful and so different! I wonder what makes it so?"

And no one would have been disappointed in that.

I suppose sometimes ignorance is bliss. But in my opinion, so is a super blood moon eclipse. No matter how you look at it.