Sunday may have been the date for the full moon, but last night's moon was extraordinary. When it first arose above the bleak Detroit winter landscape, it was hanging low in the sky--a bright yellow globe that looked surreal. I ignored what it meant for the hospice night call and went about my evening.
The next time I saw the moon was nearly midnight. It was higher in the sky, no longer looking full, but just as pretty even if it was no longer yellow. It was white. I was driving home from a very odd visit, speaking with my east side counterpart on my cell phone (hands free, of course), and I just kept driving. Before I hung up the phone, I realized I hadn't driven home at all. I'd driven 13 miles further east to Rachel's house.
I'm sure it wasn't the distraction of the call or the autopilot imprint of driving to Rachel's home for 15 years in a row, but the allure of the moon that dragged me so far. I'm glad I snapped out of the trance before I drove another 13 miles east and landed in Lake St. Clair.
Oh. I almost forgot. I met a person last night who has been knitting for about 85 years. She kept saying, "now what was I making here? I forget." I was charmed. Don't think she won't get a skein of my handspun.
Photo Wiki Commons: Top of Gaisberg and rising moon