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Show Moon - 22 beard red-gold. His brow is high and smooth, his smile generous, his features regular and strong. In this light, I can't believe my good fortune. But in those dark night hours, I'm angered against all reason. I want him with me, riding dangerously in the sickle of the moon. I lean away from my canvas and try to tell him about the images that cascade into my sleep. I say, "Last night I saw a dark thing rising over me, a time-lapse roll of clouds over the foothills like the shadow of an enormous bird or fish. It was maybe a man standing over my bed." I hold my breath, afraid I have told too much. He cocks his head at me, so I try this: "It wasn't a specific person I saw; it was more like the sadness and the terrible need of everyone in the world." "What terrible need?" he asks, his brows perplexed. "What sadness?" What can I say? He knows as well anyone that the songbirds are vanishing, the Chinook are failing to spawn, and children are dying in the streets of our cities. He saw both his parents die, one of cancer, the other of a failing heart, in their early middle age and himself become a teenaged orphan. But he sees himself as lucky, having work he loves, and the farm, and me in his life. What a gift for happiness! Why should he join me in my absurd unhappiness? He reaches over to me and strokes my arm, tries to comfort me, even though I've confused him. I ought to be grateful beyond measure. But something about me isn't right. I can't let go of it. I want him pressing against every black, bitter part of me. That's me, too, isn't it? What good is love if it's only for the sunlight part? Yet, if he were to come where I'm asking what good would that do? What's wrong with me? I've recently turned forty, the age, they say, when life begins. |