Tonight as I was walking from my room to go downstairs I caught the sight of the moon in the huge triple window high on the wall in Morguhn's bedroom.
In other days, we would lay in bed, sometimes nestled together, or holding hands, talking, or drifting off to sleep bathed in moonlight as Diana rose and traveled across the window, her view dappled by leaves in three seasons, or, as tonight, broken by the dark shadows of the bare maple limbs, like a steel point engraving, or a German Expressionist landscape. Beautiful, and stark, and leaving us full of wonder. It seemed impossible to quarrel, or even be cross on those nights. In the face of so much beauty all we could do was be grateful for each other, for love, for beauty.
So, to try to preserve...I don't know...the memory of those wonderful times, I carried a stool into his room, and stood on it with my iPhone, and tried to capture the window. But the moon was too bright, the contrast too deep, for even the remarkable camera in the phone to capture. Instead it is blurred where the moon was a perfect white sphere, clean-edged and brilliant. The limbs that were drawn with the pen's precision have the soft edges of the painter's brush, or the blended lines of the batik artist.
It is a beautiful photo. I can look at it and be glad I took it, and treasure it. But it is not the image I was trying to capture, no more than the view was a view we shared. It is like, but not the thing itself. It is itself. A thing of beauty, as were the others, but not what I reached for, which like the moon, remains eternally beyond my grasp.
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