That Monday lunar eclipse was the first time I looked at the moon through binoculars. I could clearly make out the rabbit’s ears and the tilt of its body embedded in the craters. Once, at the Griffith Observatory, I wore sunglasses to see the moon through the telescope because the reflection of the Sun was bright enough to scorch your eye. I couldn’t see the rabbit or Coalxauhqui, it was just pure light.
I used the binoculars at the moment the eclipse begun. The penumbra, the shadow on the edge of her skirt, another hour or two before the blood would seep through. I went to bed, didn’t set an alarm to wake me for the event because there is a new schedule in this household, one that calls for uninterrupted sleep.
I wear an emerald engagement ring. It enhances the impact of my zodiac. On early Tuesday morning, it led me out of our bed to watch the white crescent grow over an otherwise sepia moon. Through the green leaves of the garden and in the company of tireless song birds, I understood the lesson: not all moments are meant to be shared.