When we were young and on the way home from Joliet from family gatherings (in the white cushioned chair, high backed and gold leafed, up on the carpet like a dry riverbed, I had slapped my aunt for eating my Christmas present candy), the moon would follow us. Peering out of the Caravan window, I watch it stay even with us on the highway because, it too, was going where we were, at an even pace.
Since then, though, it has been held in stasis by scientific maturity.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment