The moon was a miracle last night. A common miracle, but a miracle nonetheless. As I drove the elevated section of the 105 heading east to pick Mom up from dialysis, it rose large as a golden ghost galleon, floating along the bridge at the Hawthorne Avenue Green Line station. Nestled in amongst the lights of flights coming in to LAX, floating gold amongst their bright white, every once in awhile one of the planes crossed its face, entering movie cliché time as they became silhouetted against it. Beneath the moon, the lights of the Los Angeles basin spread out like a host of firefly fairies, glimmering off to the horizon before disappearing at the backdrop of the black San Gabriel mountains.
The Metro Green Line runs down the center of the 105 at this stage of its journey. On nights with a hint of moisture, the electric lines flow with little lightlings hurrying ahead of the trains as if to declare with joy, “She’s coming, she’s coming! The Great Mother of us all is coming!” Once the train passes, they rush in her wake, “Wait for us, wait for us!”—electric ducklings following Mama back to swim in the great lake of light, away from the shore that is not their true home.
My heart lifts when I see those little guys. For a moment, I am somewhere else, not driving that freeway, but watching the play of some separate existence intersect briefly with the mundane world. And for a moment last night, the moon became my buffer, my salvation, my miracle of the moment.
