A Curious Moon

By Hilary Levinson

Virgo 𖤓 | Aquarius ⏾ | Scorpio ↑

Lake Michigan, June 21, 2003

Sand and inky darkness,
memory, still light.

The dark ebbs, and I see us
a blanket on the sand
silhouettes against the rising sun.

This will be the first of many, but for years
and even now,
it will be this moment I think of
on the longest day—

the glint of sunlight in our eyes
violet and yellow and orange and pink
and everything before us, immaculate and glistening.

This is a perfect memory
I’ll think, then
and even now,
hemmed in by the golden light of morning.

How do you make a memory? How
do you carry a moment with you, across
the thousand ebbs and flows of your life, along
the craggy shorelines, the darkest recesses, how
do you keep it?

Our faces are turned toward the light,
we’ll do this again, we say, and
we will, from one longest day to the next, even as
the years get shorter, and our memories blur,
but we’ll do it again
and again,
returning each year
to watch the light take hold
of the morning.

Hilary Levinson (she/her) is a professor at Virginia Commonwealth University, where she teaches writing and literature. When she is not teaching, she loves reading, baking, and dancing. She lives in Richmond, VA, with her partner, two kids, and a cat named Impa.