Boycotting the Moon

When I was younger I would frequently go to my grandparents' house one night on the weekend to sleepover. This was always exciting for me: playing checkers and having serious talks with my grandfather, walking in the woods behind their house, eating my grandmother's creamed chicken, staying up later than I was allowed to at home. The three of us would settle in front of the TV before bed, though we tended to converse more with each other than watch the screen. One New Year's Eve I fell asleep, sandwiched comfortably between them on the couch. I awoke later (but did not open my eyes) to my grandparents discussing how they could get me safely into my room and into bed, my room being at the far end of the house. They decided, rather apprehensively, that one of them would take my arms while the other took my legs, carrying me back to my room. This prospect seemed to worry them--they did not want to drop me--but I had complete confidence in their abilities and few reservations, as a pup of ten, about being lifted and carried through the house. I suppose I could have opened my eyes and let them know I was capable of walking back, but it really was a wonderful experience and one we all still joke about (keep in mind that at that time my grandmother was in her mid-70's, my grandfather in his 80's). It was the kind of thing that makes one feel safe, secure, essential, and needed.

Years ago for the winter holidays my younger brother and I decided it would be nice to play a duet for dinner on Christmas. So my brother and I practiced our flutes, a somewhat tedious process with an 11-year old, and were ready. As we played that night I became very sad and sentimental, listening to my brother beside me try very hard (and succeed) at playing the right notes and rhythms, looking out at my parents smiling good naturedly, and my grandparents assimilating the amateur attempt with appreciation. Tears of appreciation of what we had (and the feeling that it was not ephemeral) began to roll down my cheeks. Somewhere in Jigg by some anonymous eighteenth century composer it hit me that I was going to leave in a few months for further education, that my brother was growing up and I did not want to miss it, that my grandparents and parents who I loved more than words can describe were not going to be around forever. It was at once a happy and sad revelation: I was grateful to be so lucky to have these people around me, and sad and scared to lose any of them.

Later that year, we were eating dinner when my father pointed out the moon. It was beautiful, bright, and full, reflected in the Hudson River that runs across the street from our house. We dutifully all looked and marveled.

"I'm boycotting the moon," my brother announced.

I looked at him.

"I don't like change," stated my brother. I nodded, and thinking more later about this seemingly humorous prospect, I was struck by how true his pronouncement rang for both of us.

As I was leaving my grandparents' house one time over the winter I walked outside into the snow, noticing that the steps I had taken earlier were barely visible, thinking of that as a metaphor for change. One cannot always expect or depend on old familiarity, former steps taken, to guide the way. But we can remember that those steps exist, that they were taken, once upon a time. And in remembering, attain some sort of foothold.