Last night, I went hunting for a Supermoon with my dad. I was wrapped in a flushed Afghan, proud bare feet, and a condition of spontaneity incurable.
It was loud when I exited my room, minutes, seconds, even! to falling in deep slumber when I remembered 11.51pm and jolted upright. My dad was in the living room watching a silent movie or something, the audio was turned down very low, and I tip-toed to the door.
The pavement scratched my feet of course, and I cranked my neck to a disappointing sky.
It was too chilly for summer.
I flag hauled the roller blinds and exited through the backdoors. My dad’s doing some renovating out there. Sequestering the roses by the fences, long-planks bedecked ready for varnishing. It doesn’t smell like paint anymore but everything’s just so white.
I climbed a cement block by one of the supporting beams, adjusting my glasses in the fog (cold chilly and all) and squinted and craned and wished. Puffing, pulling my weight, yet again disappointed by nothing. And everything.
There were hints of red, but the newspaper was false. The sky didn’t clear enough for us dreamers to behold a majestic trifecta promised.
I blame the anchor. Jane, I think. Weather-lady my b*m.